TheApDleof 


tC'i'liHlHHIIHinill' 

By  E.  Temple 
TMurston 


^^.^--S4 


^■^d 


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THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 


THE 
APPLE  OF  EDEN 


BY 

E.  TEMPLE   THURSTON 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,   MEAD   &   COMPANY 

1905 


Copyright  1904,  1905,  by 
£.  Temple  Thurston. 


AS    WOEK     OF     MINE 

APAB.T     FKOM    ANY    KELIGIOUS    DIFFEEENCES 
IT    MAY    BAISE 

9  il^duat^  tills  Sank 

TO    MY    WIFE 
KATHERINE    CECIL    THUESTON 


2228815 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    I 

PAGE 

The  Celibate  1 

BOOK   II 
The  Man  123 

BOOK   III 
The  Woman  179 

BOOK   IV 
The  Law  ^71 


BOOK   V 
The  Sacrament 


BOOK   VI 

The  Inevitable  327 


BOOK    I 
THE   CELIBATE 


"  Before  thou  makest  a  vow — prepare  thyself;  and 
be  not  as  a  man  that  tempteth  the  Lord." — Ecclesias- 
ticus  xviii.  23. 

"  But  I  say  to  the  unmarried  and  to  the  widows;  it 
is  good  for  them  if  they  continue,  even  as  I.  But  if 
they  do  not  contain  themselves,  let  them  marry.  For 
it  is  better  to  marry  than  to  be  burnt." — 1  Cor.  vii. 
8,  9  (translated  from  the  Latin  Vulgate). 

"  Yet  in  face  of  this  gloomy,  uninviting  fact,  voca- 
tions fail  not,  crowds  still  seek  the  perilous  office. 
This  as  actual  fact  is  worth  investigating.  Why  do 
they  seek  it  so  eagerly  and  in  such  numbers  ?  Priests 
were  never  more  numerous.  'Seminaries*  abound 
and  are  filled.  Oh,  various  are  the  motives,  etc.,  etc, 
as  is  easy  to  analyze,  taking  human  natiu-e  and  con- 
ditions of  toilsome  life  into  account.  Half  of  the 
candidates  never  realize  to  the  full  extent  what  they 
are  facing." — "Discourses"  by  an  Irish  priest  in 
America. 


THE   APPLE    OF    EDEN 


CHAPTER  I 

**  Bless  me,  Father,  for  I  have  sinned." 

And  then  again,  when  the  priest  had  pulled  aside 
the  little  shutter,  through  whose  mouth  the  forgiving 
hand  of  God  is  stretched — 

"I  confess  to  Almighty  God,  to  Blessed  Mary, 
ever  virgin,  to  Blessed  Michael,  the  archangel,  to 
Blessed  John,  the  baptist,  to  the  Holy  Apostles  Peter 
and  Paul,  to  all  the  saints  and  to  you.  Father;  that 
I  have  sinned  exceedingly  in  thought,  word,  deed  and 
omission — through  my  fault,  through  my  fault, 
through  my  most  grievous  fault." 

The  supplicant  finished  his  "  Confiteor "  with  a 
deeply-taken  breath  as  the  priest  leaned  forward  on 
his  seat,  inclining  his  head  in  listening  attitude 
towards  the  latticed  grating. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  a  Saturday.  Except 
for  the  feeble  flickering  of  a  few  candles  that  burnt 
timidly  in  the  large  stand  before  the  Altar  of  the 
Virgin,  and  the  constant,  steady,  glimmer  of  the  red 
sanctuary  light  facing  the  tabernacle,  the  chapel 
was  a  mass  of  heavy  shadows,  toning  down  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  into  an  impenetrable  blackness 
where  the  need  of  an  open  space  forbade  the  light. 

To  one  coming  in  from  the  outer  world  the  silence 
at  first  would  have  weighed  as  heavily  on  the  ears 
as  would  the  gloom  of  shadows  on  the  eyes;  but 

3 


4  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

gradually,  as  the  senses  became  accustomed  to  the 
stillness,  the  sibilant  whisperings  of  supplicant  and 
confessor  would  have  made  themselves  audible  with  a 
mysterious  insistence.  No  one  did  come  in  from  the 
outer  world,  however,  and,  except  for  the  occasional 
passing  and  repassing  of  the  woman  who  kept  the 
chapel  in  order,  they  were  alone.  Her  entries  were 
not  frequent,  and  she  wore  slippers  of  a  noiseless 
kind — the  kind  which  by  reason  of  poverty  are  worn 
to  a  pathetic  thinness  of  soles.  Every  time  that 
she  passed  in  front  of  the  High  Altar  she  paused, 
turned  her  head  in  its  direction,  and  with  a  swiftly 
accomplished  genuflexion,  walked  on  into  the  sacristy. 

By  the  time  that  the  supplicant  had  concluded  the 
confession  of  his  sin — for  it  was  one  alone  that  had 
occupied  his  mind  when  he  had  entered  the  confes- 
sional— the  door  of  the  sacristy  closed  with  a 
muffled  noise  ;  the  chapel  woman  had  gone  home  to 
her  tea,  leaving  priest  and  man  by  themselves  in  the 
House  of  God. 

Leaning  back  on  his  cushioned  seat  the  priest 
listened  thoughtfully  to  the  last  words  of  the  man's 
confession,  and  a  slight  expression  of  sensitive  con- 
tempt, mingling  almost  imperceptibly  with  religious 
pity,  caught  up  and  twisted  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 

The  tale  that  had  just  been  told  to  him  was  one 
that  he  had  heard  before  from  other  lips,  in  other 
fashions.  Not  many  times  certainly,  for  morality  in 
the  wilder  and  extreme  country  parts  of  Ireland  is 
maintained  at  a  high  standard  by  reason  of  that 
innate  spirit  of  almost  ignorant  simplicity  which 
pervades  everything. 


THE   CELIBATE  6 

Had  he  heard  it  more  often,  might  it  be  possible  to 
say  that  that  expression  of  sensitive  contempt  would 
have  given  way  entirely  to  that  of  religious  pity? 
It  cannot  certainly  be  guaranteed.  The  city  breeds 
that  which  the  country  cannot  sustain ;  and  moreover 
the  nature  of  a  man  is  not  content  to  wait  for  him 
outside  the  door  of  a  confessional. 

He  had  heard  it  before,  but  not  quite  under  the  same 
circumstances,  and  it  is  after  all  by  the  circumstances 
of  our  sins  that  we  must  be  judged,  by  the  motives  of 
our  virtue  that  we  must  receive  reward.  But  to 
Father  Everett,  in  his  inner  judgment — the  judgment 
that  is  inseparable  from  the  man — circumstances  had 
no  weight  whatsoever  in  just  this  one  sin  alone,  to 
the  confession  of  which  he  had  been  listening. 

Having  put  one  or  two  questions  to  the  penitent  he 
began  to  talk  to  him,  opening  his  mind  with  that  con- 
fidence of  speech  which  is  possessed  only  by  one  who 
feels  deeply  on  the  subject  which  he  is  condemning  or 
extolling. 

"  My  child, "  he  said  slowly,  "  if  your  spirit  is 
willing  but  your  body  weak,  God  hath  ordained  the 
holy  sacrament  of  matrimony;  in  which,  if  a  man 
cannot  rely  on  his  own  strength,  he  may  enter  with- 
out incurring  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty." 

A  thought  of  his  means  crossed  the  mind  of  the  man 
kneeling  on  the  other  side  of  the  latticed  grating, 
and  he  looked  wistfully  up  to  the  roof  of  the  con- 
fessional, waiting  for  the  priest  to  continue. 

"  Whenever  I  hear  such  a  confession  as  this, "  the 
Father  proceeded,  "  I  quote  the  words  of  St.  Paul : 
*  But  I  say  to  the  unmarried  and  to  the  widows :  it  is 


6  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

good  for  them  if  they  so  continue,  even  as  I.  But  if 
they  do  not  contain  themselves,  let  them  marry.  For 
it  is  better  to  marry  than  to  be  burnt. '  " 

"  But,  Father,  I  hope  to  marry  her  some  day.  At 
present  it's  impossible.  I  haven't  the  means  to  keep 
a  wife." 

"Was  it  with  that  promise  you  seduced  her?" 
asked  the  priest  coldly. 

"  Father "  the  young  man  paused  on  the  word. 

This  was  the  lenient  priest,  whom  in  a  country 
village  he  had  hoped  to  find.  From  time  to  time  in 
the  city  where  he  came  from,  he  had  delayed  his  con- 
fession. His  moral  strength  was  not  sufficient  to 
enable  him  to  meet  the  scorn  of  a  priest  experienced 
in  the  sins  of  the  world.  But  now,  when  chance  had 
brought  him  into  the  country,  he  thought  that  he 
had  found  his  opportunity  for  an  easy  confession. 

"Father  there  was  no  conscious  seduction,"  he 
said,  his  disappointment  altering  markedly  the  tone 
of  his  voice.  "We  were  weak — ^both  of  us.  When 
those  moments  come  one  forgets  to  count  the  cost; 
then  it  is  past  and  all  one's  faculty  for  counting  is 
intensified." 

A  look  of  hardness,  of  a  lack  of  appreciation, 
passed  across  Father  Everett's  eyes.  Here  lay  an 
opportunity,  an  instance  in  which  the  power  of  will 
that  God  had  given  him,  a  celibate,  could  be  used  to 
advantage  upon  the  sin  of  this  creature  who  knelt 
beside  him.  It  was  not  a  subject  that  could  be 
preached  upon  without  misunderstanding  from  the 
altar  steps.  In  the  confessional  alone  was  such  a 
theme  appropriate.      He   pulled   aside   the   curtain 


THE   CELIBATE  7 

which  concealed  him  from  the  chapel,  and  finding 
that  no  others  were  waiting  for  their  confession  to 
be  heard,  leant  back  again  on  his  seat  and  folded  his 
hands  in  momentary  prayer. 

It  so  happened  that  this  was  a  subject  which  he 
had  considered  frequently — which  most  celibates  do 
consider  frequently.  When  he  was  a  boy  at  May- 
nooth,  before  his  vows  were  taken  ;  when  he  was  a 
priest  in  the  silence  of  his  rooms,  it  was  a  question 
that  had  often  applied  itself  to  him  for  considera- 
tion, and  he  fancied  that  he  had  looked  at  it  from 
every  point  of  view. 

To  scarcely  a  sterner  or  less  lenient  confessor  could 
this  young  man  have  come  ;  for  those  who  have 
studied  the  laws  of  nature  from  a  world  of  books  are 
not  over-ready  to  forgive  nature's  shortcomings  out- 
side the  covers. 

"The  sin  remains,"  Father  Everett  said  after  the 
long  pause  that  followed  the  penitent's  last  words. 
**  No  man  is  born  a  fool  who  cannot  count  the  costs 
before  and  after.  When  those  moments  come,  you 
say,  one  forgets  to  count  the  costs.  Do  you  never 
think  of  the  moments  that  come  previous  to  all  these ; 
those  in  which  one  is  given  time  to  think,  time  to 
consider  and  time  to  make  one  determine  to  resist  ?  " 

The  suppliant  endeavoured  in  the  darkness  to  make 
out  the  features  of  the  priest  through  the  latticed 
grating. 

"There  are  such  moments,  Father,"  he  said.  "I 
am  not  trying  to  lessen  my  offence  by  denying  their 
existence.  But  one  does  not  always  realize  them. 
One  does  not  always  see  what  they  are  leading  to 


8  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

and  stop  to  consider  within  oneself,  determining  to 
resist  the  crisis  when  it  comes. " 

"Do  you  mean ? "  began  the  priest  quickly. 

"  I  mean, "  hurriedly  interposed  the  young  man,  "  I 
mean  that  such  temptations  come  in  a  moment,  in  one 
flash  when  one  least  expects  them. " 

"  Do  you  mean, "  repeated  the  priest  inexorably, 
"  that  no  thought  of  such  a  result  entered  your  mind 
before — ^before  you  saw  her — the  girl,  on  that  oc- 
casion ?  " 

The  young  man  hesitated,  then  coughed  nervously, 
clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands  on  the  rest  before 
him. 

"  No  more.  Father,  than  what  enters  naturally  into 
every  man's  mind  with  regard  to  the  girl  whom  he 
intends  to  marry." 

"  So  you  think  every  man's  mind  is  weighed  by  that 
thought  before  he  marries  ? "  The  voice  of  the 
priest  was  hard. 

"  It  is  only  natural.  Father.  " 

"  Natural  ! "  The  note  of  the  ascetic  was  in  his 
voice.  "My  son,  we  share  our  passions  with  the 
beasts  of  the  field ;  but  it  is  not  natural  to  the  human 
being  to  make  himself  like  them.  When  first  man  and 
first  woman  were  created  they  lived  happily  together 
in  the  garden  of  Eden.  Their  passions  were  dor- 
mant. They  beheld  each  other  and  were  not 
ashamed  ;  their  senses  were  not  touched.  They  were 
mere  creatures,  children  of  God.  The  devil  tempted 
those  dormant  passions  of  the  woman  which  God  had 
designed  to  lie  fallow — she  fell,  and  so  originated  all 
sin.     All  sin,  you  see,  capie  from  the  gratification  of 


THE   CELIBATE  9 

a  passion.  Had  It  not  been  gratified,  then  there 
would  have  been  no  sin. " 

"  Why  did  God  create  mankind  and  womankind  with 
a  passion,  Father,  that  was  not  meant  to  be  gratified, 
that  was  not  meant  to  be  employed  ?  Where  was 
the  need  for  its  existence  ^  " 

The  priest  nervously  arranged  his  stole  about  his 
shoulders,  and  there  was  a  pause  making  the  silence 
about  them  intense. 

"  The  Almighty  God  Is  a  God  of  Mysteries,"  he  said 
at  length,  having  murmured  one  short,  fervent  prayer 
that  he  might  be  enabled  to  answer  aright.  "The 
Almighty  God  is  a  God  of  Mysteries,"  he  repeated. 
"And  it  is  only  by' faith  that  the  mysteries  of  this  life 
may  be  accepted  and  taken  as  a  reason  in  themselves. 
You  have  not  faith,  my  son.  There  lies  the  root  of 
all  your  sin.  Pray,  pray  that  you  may  obtain  faith, 
and  all  these  lusts  of  the  flesh  shall  be  taken  from 
you." 

Faith — the  supplicant  looked  wearily  about  him — 
faith  was  like  a  spurious  coin  to  a  blind  man.  Only 
when  it  came  to  keeping  the  wolf  from  the  door  would 
he  find  that  it  bent  between  his  fingers. 

"Then  you  do  maintain.  Father,"  he  said,  "that 
such  thoughts,  let  alone  the  deeds  that  are  the  result 
of  them,  are  not  natural  ?  " 

"  Natural  in  that  they  exist,"  said  the  priest,  **  but 
far  from  natural  when  we  encourage  them,  giving 
them  a  place  to  grow  and  mature  In  the  mind.  They 
are  just  like  weeds,  my  child,  of  which  we  might  say 
it  Is  the  result  of  nature  that  they  grow  In  our 
gardens.     But  can  one  give  the  excuse,  of  a  garden 


10  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

whose  fairest  flowers  are  overrun  with  thistles,  that 
it  is  natural  that  such  things  should  be  ?  No  ! 
We  take  a  hoe  and  we  dig  them  up,  one  by  one  by 
the  roots,  so  that  only  the  flowers  may  have  full 
liberty  to  grow  there.  Every  mind  is  a  garden,  and 
in  the  shed  of  all  natures  the  Almighty  God  has  put 
the  hoe  of  faith  with  which  we  can  root  out  the  weeds 
of  our  nature." 

"But  thoughts  grow  quicker  than  weeds  and  their 
roots  are  deeper." 

**I  do  not  see  that,"  said  the  priest  sharply. 

*'Yet  a  weed  begins  to  grow  and  for  the  first  few 
days  the  strength  of  one's  fingers  will  pull  it  up.  In 
a  week  a  piece  of  stick  will  be  needed  to  probe  to 
the  roots  ;  then  finally,  the  steel  of  the  hoe.  With  a 
thought,  it  comes  in  one  moment  and  it  comes  full- 
grown.  It  comes  from  objects,  the  sight  or  touch  of 
which  will  bring  it  into  sudden  and  vital  existence. 
And  once  it  is  in  our  minds  it  is  a  step,  a  long  step  to 
a  result." 

Father  Everett  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  nerv- 
ously wiped  the  sweat  from  his  hands.  This  man 
who  had  come  to  confess  belonged  evidently  to  a  class 
with  whom  he  had  never  come  into  contact  before. 
He  had  taken  up  his  first  duties  as  a  curate  in  this 
little  village  only  some  two  years  before,  and  in  all 
his  experience  of  supplicants,  though  he  knew  it  to 
be  comparatively  a  small  one,  he  had  met  with  none 
who  had  not  taken  his  decision  as  final  and  the  law 
of  the  Church.  This  young  man  was  truly  of  a 
different  class  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 
He  had  scarcely  uttered  one  sentence  of  his  confes- 


THE   CELIBATE  11 

sion  before  Father  Everett  realized  that  he  was  a 
member  of  that  new  generation  whose  reason  is  the 
great  obstacle  to  its  faith.  In  the  many  villagers 
who,  Saturday  after  Saturday,  came  to  make  their 
confessions  to  him,  the  priest  had  always  found  tacit, 
childish  obedience,  implicit  and  servile  belief.  But 
then  he  alwaj^s  expected  it,  and  therefore  it  usually 
escaped  his  notice.  But  now  in  comparison  with 
the  difficult  instance  of  this  young  man,  he  became 
aware  how  easy  that  childish  obedience  was  to  deal 
with. 

In  all  that  he  had  said  with  his  mild,  patient  voice, 
Father  Everett  had  found  nothing  that  he  could 
really  take  objection  to.  Yet  this  fact  of  being  put 
upon  the  test  and  made  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  simple 
questioning  was  one  that  jarred  upon  his  nerves  and 
brought  him  to  that  state  of  neurotic  irritability 
which  he  felt  difficult  to  control. 

In  a  pious,  generous  way,  he  felt  that  the  fault  lay 
within  himself.  Yet  what  had  caused  his  irritability 
was  the  knowledge  that  had  it  been  any  other  appli- 
cant for  absolution,  any  such  as  he  was  accustomed 
to,  he  would  not  have  been  submitted  to  this  necessity 
of  answering  the  questions  that  were  put  to  him. 

With  it  all,  moreover,  as  a  pastor  of  men's  souls,  he 
told  himself  that  the  matter  was  by  no  means  ex- 
hausted until  he  could  convince  this  young  man  to 
his,  the  right,  way  of  thinking.  There  was,  he  felt 
instinctively  certain  of,  something  behind  all  that  he 
had  heard  ;  some  force  that,  still  predominating  in 
the  penitent's  mind,  was  a  goading  influence  to  the 
persistence  of  his  point  of  view.     So,  with  a  worthy 


1«  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

sense  of  his  duty  towards  God  and  this  sinful  son  of 
mankind  at  his  side,  he  set  himself  with  a  sigh  to 
probe  stiU  further  to  the  root  of  the  evil. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  when  all  these  thoughts  had 
passed  through  his  mind,  "  I  feel  that  there  are  still 
other  things,  other  considerations,  that  have  weight 
with  you.  Much  as  I  grieve  to  say,  I  am  confi- 
dent that  ray  arguments  have  not  convinced  your 
reason." 

He  made  no  little  sacrifice  when  he  volunteered  this 
admission.  It  was  not  a  small  thing  in  his  mind, 
that  he,  a  chosen  priest  of  God,  should  humble  himself 
so  far  as  to  acknowledge  that  his  arguments  were  not 
convincing.  But  different  circumstances  demand 
widely  different  treatment,  and  Father  Everett  was 
not  by  nature  narrow-minded.  He  had  his  convic- 
tions, and  if  the  first  setting  forth  of  them  did  not 
convince  others,  he  was  by  no  means  ready  to  ac- 
knowledge himself  beaten  or  to  say  that  his  opponents 
were  fools.  He  fully  reahzed  that  there  were  other 
opinions  in  the  world  besides  his  own.  His  one  char- 
acteristic peculiarity  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  con- 
fident he  was  in  the  right;  a  peculiarity  which  no 
doubt  he  possessed  in  common  with  many  others. 

*'If  there  is  anything  more  that  you  can  tell  me," 
he  added,  "  anything  more  of  your  own  thoughts  or 
your  own  feelings  which  may  help  me  more  fully  to 
understand  all  that  is  in  your  mind,  it  would  be  better 
to  tell  me.  I  am  here  to  Usten.  You  say  that 
thoughts  come  suddenly  from  various  objects  before 
one  has  time  to  be  aware  of  them.  I  think  I  under- 
stand you  there.     But  it  is  your  duty  to  avoid  such 


THE   CELIBATE  13 

objects.  Keep  away  from  them.  Perhaps  you  mean 
books  that  you  have  read  or  pictures  that  you  have 
seen.  The  world  is  full  of  such  snares  into  which  an 
unwary  man  may  be  drawn.  But  it  all  points  to  the 
same  thing.  Avoid  them!  Shun  them!  They  do 
not  conduce  to  the  health  of  your  soul." 

But  as  yet  the  priest  did  not  fully  understand, 
though  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  the  young  man  was 
not  slow  to  find  encouragement.  He  was  not  much 
more  than  a  boy,  a  few  years  past  the  age  of  twenty ; 
but  for  his  years  he  had  read  perhaps  more  than  his 
portion  of  thoughtful  literature,  though  the  share  of 
thoughts  which  it  had  engendered  was  well  within  the 
very  ordinary  nature  of  things.  Living  by  himself 
in  lodgings  and  mainly  dependent  upon  relations  in 
the  country  for  his  support,  he  had  become  more  shy 
than  sensitive,  more  reticent  than  nervous  ;  and 
though  his  passions  had  led  him  past  all  shyness  and 
reserve — for  fundamentally  his  animal  instincts  were 
overbearing  in  him — ^yet,  in  laying  bare  his  confession 
to  the  priest,  as  he  knew  he  would  be  compelled  to  do, 
all  the  determination  that  had  prompted  the  sin  had 
died  down  into  a  petulant  and  argumentative  intro- 
spection. And  it  was  this  very  encouragement  that 
he  had  been  seeking,  when  he  was  led  to  go  to  confes- 
sion in  a  country  chapel,  which  alone  could  draw  him 
from  the  shelter  of  his  personal  reserve. 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  seeing  of  pictures  or 
the  reading  of  books.  Father,"  he  said  with  a  greater 
tone  of  confidence  in  his  voice.  "  The  particular  ob- 
ject which  I  mentioned,  was  one  that  I  could  not 
reasonably  avoid." 


14  THE  'APPLE  OF  EDEN 

To  Father  Everett,  listening  intently  to  every  word, 
such  a  statement  seemed  preposterous. 

"  Not  reasonably  avoid  ?  "  he  repeated  incredulously. 
**I  know  of  nothing  that  cannot  be  reasonably 
avoided  if  it  is  not  for  the  good  of  my  soul.  Every 
man  has  a  free  wiU  of  his  own.  What  is  the  object 
that  so  works  on  your  passions  as  to  make  your  will 
as  weak  as  water  ?  " 

"  The  girl  herself,  Father.  The  girl  I  am  going  to 
marry." 

The  priest  drew  in  his  breath. 

"  Then  avoid  her ! "  he  said  sternly.  "  Shun  her ! 
A  girl  who  will  willingly  tempt  a  man,  as  you  would 
say  she  has  tempted  you,  is  not  fit  to  be  the  companion 
of  any.     Avoid  her ! " 

"I  have  never  said  that  she  has  tempted  me  of  her 
own  will,  Father.  Not  for  one  moment  did  I  intend 
to  imply  such  a  thing.  She  is  a  woman.  She  has 
her  nature.  But  I  know  that  she  is  as  far  from  de- 
sign as  God  could  make  her.  She  cannot  help  her 
looks,  her  eyes,  her  lips  or  her  hair.  God  gave  her 
those,  and  they  are  the  objects,  which  I  spoke  of,  that 
have  weakened  my  will  and  made  me  sin." 

"  Her  hair  ?  "  echoed  the  priest  amazed. 

"Yes,  her  hair.  Its  colour  affects  me.  How  can 
I  explain?  It  is  red — a  deep  auburn  red.  And  her 
lips  and  her  eyes,  they  are  all  forms  of  temptation  to 
me.  Yet  how  can  I  avoid  her,  Father?  If  I  leave 
her  without  giving  any  reason,  perhaps  her  mind  will 
turn  to  another.  She  is  young — we  are  both  young 
for  that  matter — but  she  is  younger  than  I,  and  even 
now  she  may  not  know  her  own  mind.     How  can  I 


THE   CELIBATE  16 

avoid  her  so,  because  I  must  marry  her  ?  I  can't  do 
without  her." 

This  craving  note  in  the  young  man's  voice  did  not 
pass  by  the  priest  unnoticed. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said  slowly,  "that 
your  body  Is  so  weak  that  your  spirit  is  overcome  by 
the  mere  appearance  of  a  woman — solely  by  the 
beauty  of  her  looks.''  Have  you  no  more  strength 
than  that  .?  " 

**The  beauty  of  a  woman,  Father,  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  strongest  power  that  she  has,  and  the  easiest 
pitfall  for  a  man ! " 

Father  Everett  shook  himself  as  he  stood  up  from 
his  seat,  lightening  the  stole  about  his  shoulders  with 
the  nervousness  of  exasperation  that  is  barely  kept 
under  control. 

"My  son,"  he  said  quietly — the  quietness  that 
comes  into  a  man's  voice  when  he  is  agitated — "  when 
you  feel  sorry  for  your  sin,  come  and  confess  it  to 
me  again."  And  he  walked  out  of  the  confessional 
into  the  chapel. 

Some  few  minutes  later,  as  he  passed  back  from  the 
sacristy  to  the  principal  door  of  the  chapel,  he  saw 
the  figure  of  the  young  man  emerging  from  the  con- 
fessional. He  slid  quietly  into  the  nearest  seat,  and 
lifting  up  his  face  to  the  ceiling  was  so  engrossed  in 
his  thoughts  that  he  did  not  notice  the  passing  of  the 
priest  on  his  way  out  of  the  church. 

Father  Everett  took  a  swift  glance  at  the  face  so 
raised,  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  that  of  a  young 
man,  with  fair  moustache  and  sensuous  underlip  ; 
sensuous  to  a  degree,  otherwise  he  would  not  have 


16  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

noticed  it.     Yet  most  remarkable  of  all  to  Father 
Everett  was  his  youthfulness. 

As  I  imagined,  he  thought  to  himself  when  he  had 
closed  the  chapel  door,  as  I  imagined,  the  new — the 
younger  generation.  A  little  learning,  he  added  in 
his  thoughts,  a  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing. 


CHAPTER    II 

About  a  mile  outside  the  village  of  Ballyporeen  in 
the  county  of  Waterford  there  stands  an  old  farm- 
house. Its  approach  from  the  village  lies  along  a 
stretch  of  uneven  road,  portions  of  which  have  been 
devoured  by  the  hungry  sea  and  washed  into  the  sand 
that  winds  along  by  its  side  in  the  curve  of  an  open 
bay.  An  occasional  effort  is  made  by  those  who  use 
it  as  a  traffic-way  to  patch  up  the  results  of  these  in- 
cursions, but  as  only  shingle  is  employed  the  former 
state  of  affairs  is  repeated  all  over  again  and  the 
last  condition  of  that  place  is  generally  a  little  worse 
than  the  first. 

The  farmhouse  is  composed  of  some  three  or  four 
one-storeyed  thatched  cottages,  all  welded  into  a  long, 
low  building,  at  each  end  of  which  a  shed  protrudes 
at  right  angles  forming  a  square  farmyard  in  front 
of  the  house. 

Besides  being  the  only  approach  to  the  kitchen 
door,  which  is  the  main  entrance  to  the  building,  this 
yard,  with  its  little  pool  of  filthy  water  in  one  comer 
and  its  sheds  at  either  end,  is  the  happy  hunting- 
ground  of  all  the  chickens,  geese,  ducks  and  smaller 
creatures  which  go  to  make  up  the  live  stock  and 
swell  those  sounds  of  animal  life  which  are  inseparable 
from  such  an  establishment.  There  is  no  pavement 
either  of  bricks  or  cobbles  to  preserve  its  cleanliness, 
and  the  mire  of  mud  which  collects  there  is  churned 
into  a  thousand  and  one  geometrical  designs  by  the 

IT 


Id  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

wheels  of  the  many  heavy  carts  that  are  drawn 
through  its  yielding  surface. 

In  vivid  contrast  to  this  approach  is  the  spotless 
cleanliness  of  the  house  itself,  which,  twice  a  year  at 
least,  is  subjected  to  the  process  of  whitewashing  ; 
and  so,  by  reason  of  its  lonely  situation,  lies  against 
the  green  land  around  it,  a  mark  to  all  the  fishing- 
boats  at  sea. 

And  here  It  was,  In  sound  and  sight  of  the  changing 
Atlantic,  In  the  midst  of  the  drowsy  atmosphere  of 
milch  cattle  that  now  and  again  was  awakened  into 
pungent  energy  by  a  whifF  of  briny  seaweed  ;  with 
the  simplest  forms  of  life  in  the  simplest  forms  of 
their  existence  all  about  him,  that  Michael  Everett 
first  opened  his  eyes  in  obedience  to  the  commands 
of  nature  and  looked  at  life. 

Thomas  Everett  his  father  was  the  owner  of  the 
farm  which  had  been  passed  on  from  one  generation 
to  another,  father  to  son,  since  before  the  time  of  the 
rebellion  of  '98.  With  almost  every  occupant  some 
addition  has  been  made  to  the  building  in  accordance 
with  the  success  which  had  attended  his  period  of 
tenure.  Starting  as  no  doubt  it  had,  with  one  small 
thatched  cottage,  it  had  grown,  up  to  the  time  of 
Michael  Everett's  birth,  to  be  a  long  building  with 
large  open  sheds  at  either  end.  The  entire  habita- 
tion, outhouses  and  all,  was  surrounded  by  a  low 
stone  wall  which  in  keeping  with  the  house  was  white- 
washed twice  or  three  times  a  year. 

As  opposed  to  those  farmers  who  busied  themselves 
entirely  with  dry  stock,  Mr.  Everett's  Interests,  in 
fact  the  interests  of  every  owner  at  the  farm  at 


THE   CELIBATE  19 

Ballj'poreen,  had  always  concentrated  themselves  in 
the  direction  of  dairy  produce.  The  hours  for  milk- 
ing the  fifteen  or  sixteen  cows  that  comprised  his 
stock  of  milch  cattle  were  accordingly  the  most  im- 
portant in  the  day. 

Regularly  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  at  six 
in  the  evening,  all  through  the  spring  and  summer 
months,  accom'panied  by  his  sheep-dog  and  carrying 
a  stout  stick  cut  from  the  hedges,  the  farmer  would 
go  out  into  the  pasture  fields,  returning  with  his  cows. 

As  he  walked  along  behind  them,  their  tails  swish- 
ing in  automatic  unison,  their  great  udders  swollen 
with  milk,  he  was  wont  to  whistle  a  lively  tune — a 
tune  that  no  one  recognized  or  attempted  to  recognize 
but  himself  ;  for  though  his  love  for  music  was 
strong,  his  ability  for  its  performance  was  sadly 
wanting.  Yet  his  whistling  pleased  him  and  he  was 
quite  content.  A  tall,  strong  man  he  was,  though 
holding  himself  badly  in  his  ill-fitting  clothes  so  that 
his  strength  did  not  show  to  its  full  advantage. 

A  thick  dark  moustache  covered  his  upper  lip,  and 
though  he  professed  to  have  no  beard,  yet  the  laxity 
he  showed  in  shaving  his  chin  did  not  go  far  to 
confirming  that  profession.  But  above  all  he  was 
characteristic  of  his  type,  an  Irish  country  farmer, 
capable  of  conversing  on  the  minutest  details  of  his 
crops,  possessing  a  vague,  smattering  knowledge  of 
biassed  politics,  but  beyond  that — silent. 

No  sooner  would  the  dull  clic  clac  of  the  unshod 
hoofs  sound  with  their  muffled  noise  on  the  hard  road 
as  they  approached  the  farm,  than  at  the  signal,  Mrs. 
Everett,  Molly  the  maid-of-all-work  and  Patsy  the 


20  THE  'APPLE   OF  EDEN 

farm  hand  would  emerge  one  after  the  other  from 
the  kitchen  door,  waiting  with  the  large  pails  in  their 
hands  for  the  arrival  of  the  kine.  When  once  their 
heads  were  in  the  stalls  the  milking  of  the  cows  com- 
menced and  for  the  next  hour  or  so  the  stillness  of 
the  early  morning  or  the  quiet  of  the  departing  day- 
would  be  broken  only  by  the  milk  hissing  into  the 
pails,  an  occasional  voice  ordering  the  position  of 
one  of  the  animals  and  the  steady  murmur  of  the 
approaching  or  receding  sea. 

As  a  child  of  three  or  four  httle  Michael  found 
infinite  amusement  in  standing  by  Molly's  side  as 
she  wrung  the  teats,  one  in  each  hand,  whispering 
to  her  at  times  to  break  with  the  stream  of  milk  this 
or  that  bubble  which  rode  triumphant  upon  the  sur- 
face of  the  contents  of  her  pail. 

The  management  of  this,  the  dairy  side  of  the  farm, 
was  left  entirely  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Everett,  who, 
with  Molly  to  help  her,  made  the  kitchen,  which  was 
the  most  frequented  room  in  the  whole  house,  the 
centre  of  her  labours.  There,  with  its  wide-open  fire- 
place and  the  few  articles  of  red-painted  deal  fur- 
niture, she  carried  on  most  of  the  duties  of  the  day  ; 
mixed  in  the  large  meal  tubs  the  food  for  the  pigs, 
cooked  all  the  meals  for  the  household,  did  its  washing 
and  seated  herself,  when  her  day's  work  was  over,  to 
gossip  with  those  who  turned  in  upon  whatever  sub- 
ject should  happen  to  be  uppermost  in  the  topics  of 
the  village. 

In  her  own  way  Mrs.  Everett  was  unique.  She  was, 
what  an  outsider  would  call,  a  character.  Though 
not  tall  she  was  in  every  other  sense  a  big  woman. 


THE   CELIBATE  381 

At  first  sight  one  would  be  inclined  to  think,  from  the 
massive,  fleshy  arms  which  she  always  bared  to  the 
elbow  and  the  abundant  proportions  of  her  bust — 
she  never  wore  corsets — that  she  was  too  adipose  to 
accomplish  many  strenuous  duties ;  yet  the  manner  in 
which  she  fulfilled  the  obligations  of  the  dairy  was 
one  for  which  even  Mr.  Everett  gave  her  credit.  It 
is  only  in  romance  that  the  dowried  maiden  brings 
beauty  and  grace  to  her  husband ;  and  as  Mr.  Everett 
had  not  met  his  future  wife  until  the  finance  of  the 
marriage  dowry  had  been  agreed  upon,  he  had  not 
even  expected  from  her  any  attraction  of  face  or 
symmetry  of  figure.  Then  time  had  gone  on,  and 
the  bearing  of  children  had  hardly  improved  her  ap- 
pearance. Like  the  rest  of  her  body  her  face  was 
far  from  thin  or  even  rounded  ;  it  was,  in  fact,  in- 
clined to  be  circular.  Her  eyes,  long  and  narrow,  as 
through  they  had  been  freed  ineffectually  after  her 
birth,  if  not  expressive,  were  as  sharp  as  needles  ; 
and  the  penetration  of  her  voice,  contrasting  with 
the  insignificance  of  her  mouth,  was  a  thing  to  be 
wondered  at. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  her  drawbacks  of  appearance, 
she  made  an  admirable  wife  to  Mr.  Everett,  and  a 
capable,  if  unsympathetic,  mother  to  her  children. 
At  no  time  of  the  day,  were  one  to  enter  the  farm- 
house unexpectedly,  was  she  to  be  found  idle.  The 
place  echoed  with  the  sound  of  her  commands,  and 
the  kitchen  was  always  filled  with  the  energy  of  her 
presence. 

Since  it  was  in  this  kitchen  that  little  Michael's  out- 
look on  life  was  first  established  ;  that  in  this  room, 


«2  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

year  by  year  as  he  grew  older,  he  was  most  wont 
to  watch  with  increasing  powers  of  perception  the 
ways  and  means  of  life,  it  seems  only  right  that  a 
careful  observation  should  be  made  of  its  charac- 
teristics. 

In  the  first  place,  as  is  common  to  all  such  rooms 
in  the  south  of  Ireland,  the  floor  was  composed  of 
mud,  caked  hard  and  dry  so  that  the  footsteps 
sounded,  though  more  dully  than  on  stone,  with  a 
perceptible  noise  upon  its  surface.  It  was  naturally 
uneven,  sloping  up  and  down  with  unexpected  hollows 
and  sudden  upheavals  in  all  directions.  As  has  been 
already  said  the  articles  of  furniture  were  few. 
Three  pieces  there  were  in  all,  flanking  the  three  walls 
of  the  room,  the  last  wall  being  taken  up  by  the  open 
fire-place  that,  except  for  the  boiler  in  which  the 
animals'  food  was  boiled  and  the  exit  into  another 
portion  of  the  house,  occupied  the  whole  of  one  side 
of  the  kitchen. 

Here  it  was,  in  the  chimney  comers  and  round  the 
front  of  the  peat  fire  that  spat  up  its  blue  points  of 
flame  in  answer  to  the  bellows  wheel  that  all  the 
gossiping  was  done.  And  round  this  fire,  at  those 
times  of  rest  in  the  day,  all  life  in  the  farm  at  Bally- 
poreen  gathered. 

But  there  was  one  figure,  one  item  of  the  household, 
who,  whether  at  rest  or  at  labour,  never  left  the 
chimney  corner.  This  was  the  old  blind  man  to 
whom  charity  in  such  places  gives  employment  in  the 
turning  of  the  bellows  wheel.  There,  from  one  day 
to  another  he  sat  upon  his  little  three-legged  stool 
turning  the  wheel  first  with  one  hand  and  then  with 


THE   CELIBATE  28 

another  ;  sometimes  almost  mechanically,  at  others 
in  energetic  obedience  to  sudden  and  peremptory  com- 
mands requiring  the  boiling  of  a  pot  or  the  heating 
of  a  bastable  oven  in  the  ashes.  Patiently  uncon- 
scious of  all  that  was  going  on  around  him,  except 
of  what  he  could  glean  by  his  sense  of  hearing,  he 
would  infrequently  add  a  word  to  the  conversation — 
a  word  that  was  seldom  or  never  heard.  For,  if  it 
be  true  that  they  who  lose  their  sight  gain  in  the 
sense  of  hearing,  it  is  equally  true  of  those  who  retain 
it  that  their  hearing  is  poor  when  their  interest  is 
wanting.  Not  that  old  Declan,  as  he  was  called, 
had  to  suffer  in  any  way  from  ill-treatment  at  the 
farm  in  Ballyporeen.  He  had  been  called  into  serv- 
ice and  given  a  bed  and  his  food  for  the  sake  of  that 
love  of  God  which  characterizes  the  most  beautiful 
actions  of  the  Irish  people  and,  if  it  seemed  that  he 
was  neglected,  it  was  simply  that  he  exemplified  that 
ever-abiding  law  of  human  nature  which  gives  a  man 
who  has  passed  his  threescore  years  and  ten  the  least 
prominent  seat  in  the  chimney  corner. 

He  did  not  ask  for  more.  He  said  prayers  for  the 
souls  of  those  who  gave  him  so  much;  and,  if  his 
remarks  did  fall  unheeded  into  the  conversation,  he 
merely  pulled  out  his  old  clay  pipe  from  his  pocket, 
pressed  down  the  already  burnt-out  ashes  with  his 
bony  finger,  and  God  alone  heard  the  sigh,  if  there 
were  any,  that  stole  between  his  lips. 

Next  in  point  of  distinction  to  the  fire-place  came 
the  old  deal  dresser,  painted  a  dull  red  and  standing 
immediately  facing  the  fire  against  the  opposite  wall. 
To  the  stranger  with  an  eye  for  colour  this  article  of 


24  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

furniture,  with  its  three  rows  of  willow-pattern  plates 
and  the  tall  brass  candlesticks  reflecting  in  points  of 
light  the  briUiance  of  the  fire,  would  probably  be  the 
first  attraction  on  entering  the  room.  But  one  hour 
in  the  place  would  have  served  to  show  him  that  these 
appearances  of  decoration  are  taken  but  little  account 
of  and  form  no  intrinsic  part  of  the  life  within.  The 
plates,  if  ever  used,  are  brought  out  upon  occasions 
which  are  as  rare  as  that  old  mythical  satellite,  the 
blue  moon,  and  only  in  the  case  of  a  wake  are  the  brass 
candlesticks  called  into  requisition. 

Two  tables  of  different  sizes  and  a  few  deal  chairs 
with  wooden  seats  completed  the  remainder  of  the 
furniture,  and,  though  these  in  all  took  up  but  little 
space,  the  rest  of  the  kitchen  was  at  most  times  well 
occupied  by  the  large  meal  and  washing  tubs  that 
found  some  place  upon  the  floor. 

Here  it  was  then,  in  this  kitchen,  that  little  Michael's 
life  supplied  its  earhest  incidents.  Around  this  room 
he  would  wander  when  first  he  was  able  to  toddle 
alone.  On  these  excursions  the  rim  of  the  large 
meal  tub,  the  knees  of  Declan  the  blind  man,  and  the 
portal  of  the  door  which  looked  out  on  to  the  farm- 
yard were  the  intermediate  supports  ;  requirements 
which,  no  matter  who  or  how  old  we  may  be,  find  their 
way  into  our  mental,  if  not  our  physical  needs. 
With  time  this  Grand  Tour  was  enlarged  and  he 
would  be  found  out  in  the  yard  collapsed  contentedly 
in  the  thickest  mud  or  in  one  of  the  barns,  making 
believe  with  the  inaminate  objects  around  him  which 
lived  and  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  his  infantile 
imagination. 


THE   CELIBATE  Jl5 

The  first  Incident  which  deserves  full  record  oc- 
curred when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  six. 

Coming  back  one  day  from  the  National  School  in 
company  with  his  elder  brothers  and  sisters,  he 
listened  with  large,  grey,  wondering  eyes  to  the  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation. 

The  fattest  pig  in  the  yard  was  to  be  killed  on  that 
afternoon,  and  Tom,  the  eldest  son,  on  condition  of 
good  behaviour,  was  to  be  awarded  the  ownership 
of  the  bladder,  the  possession  of  which  would  make 
him  the  most  envied  of  boys  In  the  village. 

Little  Michael  trotted  along  by  their  sides  holding 
his  sister's  hand,  his  round,  incredulous  face  turning 
itself  up  to  them  with  every  fresh  description  of  the 
great  event  that  was  so  shortly  to  come  to  pass.  As 
far  as  the  bladder  was  concerned,  he  was  In  blissful 
Ignorance  as  to  the  nature  of  the  article  or  any 
feasible  reason  for  its  existence.  As  he  had  seen 
it,  being  used  as  a  football  In  the  fields  belonging  to 
the  farm  or  on  the  long  stretch  of  sand  left  by  the 
receding  tide,  it  seemed,  if  he  ever  thought  about  it 
at  all,  a  most  peculiar  thing  to  find  In  a  pig's  body. 
Blown  out  to  the  extent  that  he  had  seen  it,  and  com- 
paring it  with  the  size  of  an  ordinary  pig,  it  seemed 
as  though  there  could  be  but  little  room  for  the 
animal's  bones. 

Feeling  impressed  with  this  Idea  as  the  conversa- 
tion waxed  hotter,  he  ventured  timidly  to  put  the 
question. 

"  Shure,  where  his  food  goes  av  course,"  was  the 
reply  he  received,  and  he  felt  more  or  less  satisfied  as 
it  seemed  to  account  for  the  animal's  fatness. 


26  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

Once  or  twice  a  year  the  best-fed  pig  was  always 
led  to  the  slaughter,  but  the  fact  that  he  had  never 
witnessed  the  operation  before,  and  the  excitement 
with  which  his  brothers  anticipated  the  event,  had 
wrought  him  up  to  a  pitch  of  uncontrollable  eagerness 
to  be  present  on  this  occasion. 

As  they  reached  the  entrace  of  the  lane  that  con- 
nected the  road  with  the  yard,  the  squeals  of  the 
doomed  animal  proclaimed  the  fact  that  the  business 
was  beginning  and,  leaving  Michael  to  follow  on  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  they  all  ran  towards  the  scene 
of  slaughter  with  bloodthirsty  cries  of  delight. 

Little  Michael  stumbled  after  them  as  fast  as  his 
unsteady  feet  would  carry  him,  arriving  on  the  scene 
just  as  Patsy  the  farm  hand,  with  a  stout  rope  tied 
to  its  hind  leg,  was  dragging  the  fat  pig  backwards 
out  of  its  sty. 

He  was  a  little  child  and  did  not  quite  realize  that 
the  look  in  its  eyes  was  the  fear  of  death,  but  the 
giant  eflports  of  its  trembhng  body  and  its  unearthly, 
piteous  cries  instantly  held  him  motionless  with  the 
sudden  reaHzation  that  in  another  moment  or  so  it 
would  no  longer  be  alive,  and  not  only  that  he  knew  it 
but  that  the  poor  beast  knew  it  too.  His  mouth 
slowly  opened  as  he  watched  it  being  dragged  forth. 
Then  something  seemed  to  strike  him  suddenly  cold. 
His  father,  carrying  a  heavy  axe  in  his  hand — ^which 
opposite  to  the  blade  was  possessed  of  a  long,  sharp 
spike — stole  round  in  order  to  face  the  animal  when 
its  head  was  free  of  the  door. 

The  moment  the  creature  saw  him  its  cries  ceased. 
A  violent  trembling  shook  the  whole  of  its  coarse 


THE   CELIBATE  9!7 

body,  and  then  in  its  eyes  Kttle  Michael  realized  fully 
the  fear  of  death;  saw  it  shining  with  a  dull,  ap- 
palling light,  and,  just  as  his  father  raised  the  axe 
above  his  head,  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  still  tiny 
hands  and  with  a  shriek  that  blended  discordantly 
with  the  last  cry  of  the  pole-axed  beast,  he  ran  blindly 
on  into  the  kitchen  in  search  of  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Everett  was  at  that  moment  coming  out  into 
the  yard  with  a  cauldron  of  boiling  water  intended  to 
scald  the  skin  of  the  dead  beast,  so  that  it  might 
the  more  easily  be  scraped,  and  so  she  made  no  re- 
sponse to  his  appeal. 

Molly,  however,  was  there,  and  in  Molly's  lap  with 
its  greasy  apron,  which  fulfilled  all  duties  from  a 
towel  to  a  rag,  he  hid  his  head  from  the  light  of  day 
and  clutched  violently  at  her  skirts. 

"  Glory  be  to  God ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Everett,  as  he 
stood  up  from  his  task,  "shure,  that  boy'U  niver  have 
the  makin's  of  a  docthor." 

And  in  his  mind  he  dedicated  Michael  to  the  priest- 
hood. 


CHAPTER    III 

Michael  never  forgot,  even  after  the  tragedy  and 
disgrace  of  her  departure,  that  Molly  had  been  ready 
where  his  mother  was  found  wanting.  It  was  really 
not  to  be  expected  that  the  latter  would  lay  down  a 
heavy  cauldron  of  boiling  water,  which  she  found  no 
small  difficulty  in  carrying,  to  soothe  the  unaccount- 
able sorrows  of  her  children.  But  at  the  age  of  four, 
a  child  will  remember  these  things,  not  in  any  spiteful 
way,  merely  in  the  respect  of  his  disappointment. 

He  never  knew  what  it  was  about  Molly  that  made 
her  more  interesting,  more  necessary  to  him,  than 
his  mother.  He  felt  more  contented  and  happy  in 
himself  when  he  stood  watching  her  milk  the  cows  in 
the  shed,  or  churning  the  milk  in  the  kitchen  than 
ever  was  the  case  when  in  his  mother's  hands  he  was 
treated  as  a  bundle  of  clothes  that  was  always  un- 
conscionably dirty.  In  after  years  there  was  only 
one  sequence  of  remarks  that  he  could  call  to  mind 
which  this  amiable  maid-of-all-work  had  ever  made 
use  of,  and  in  its  way  it  was  far  from  being  brilliant. 
As  a  rule  she  was  unaccountably  silent,  but  then  she 
frequently  laid  her  hard,  dirty  hand  on  his  head — 
not  that  he  reahzed  it  was  dirty,  at  least  by  compari- 
sion  with  his  own — and  sometimes  took  his  little  fat 
fingers  in  hers,  patting  them  with  almost  motherly 
affection.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  liked  that. 
It  seemed  a  far  more  appreciable  state  of  affairs  than 
being  dragged  into  a  bedroom  to  wipe  the  mud  off 


THE   CELIBATE  29 

his  clothes,  which  was  what  generally  occurred  to  his 
brothers  after  a  violent  game  of  football. 

And  so  it  was  that  he  was  only  an  onlooker  at  the 
games  which  they  played,  and  that  on  very  rare 
occasions,  because  he  found  that  onlooking  was  not 
an  interest  appreciated  by  the  other  boys,  especially 
if  they  wished  to  make  up  a  number  for  their  sides. 
Accordingly,  whenever  Tom  and  Jamesy  went  to  play 
football  on  the  strand,  or  hand-ball  against  the  wall 
of  the  National  School,  he  seldom  if  ever  accompanied 
them. 

It  was  this  apparent  reticence  which  he  displayed  in 
these  matters  that  was  the  cause  of  bringing  him  at 
last  to  look  out  beyond  the  present  into  the  future  ; 
beyond  the  little  window  in  the  kitchen  with  its  pots 
of  geraniums  to  the  white  breakers  that  rose  in 
curling  pride  and  dashed  themselves  down  upon  the 
strand,  even  beyond  them  to  the  great  and  wide 
horizon. 

This  all  came  to  pass  in  one  night  when  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  eleven.  In  one  moment  his  whole 
outlook  in  life  was  changed  and  he  saw  things,  not 
without  some  conjuring  of  his  imagination,  but  the 
things  that  he  was  going  one  day  to  do  as  apart  from 
those  tilings  that  he  did. 

At  that  time  he  slept  with  his  brothers  and  sister  in 
a  little  room  which  backed  off  the  kitchen.  His  bed 
he  shared  with  his  brother  Jamesy,  and  on  the  night 
in  question  the  children  had  all  gone  to  sleep,  leaving 
him  to  lie  awake  with  his  eyes  wandering  round  the 
darkened  room  and  his  ears  listening  to  the  monoto- 
nous breaking  of  the  sea,  the  humming  of  the  wind 


80  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

about  the  house  and  the  voices  of  his  father  and 
mother  as  they  talked  over  the  fire  in  the  kitchen 
previous  to  their  departure  to  bed. 

The  knowledge  that  his  brother  was  asleep  by  his 
side  had  the  effect  of  making  him  feel  very  lonely. 
But  the  thought  of  creeping  into  the  kitchen  to  his 
mother  was  only  answered  by  the  knowledge  that  she 
would  command  him  at  once  to  go  back  to  bed.  No 
doubt  the  unconscious  memory  of  her  lack  of  sym- 
pathy on  another  occasion  was  the  basis  of  this  mental 
deduction,  and  lonely  though  he  felt  he  decided  to 
lie  where  he  was.  He  would  have  continued  to  do 
so,  had  not  Jamesy  turned  over  in  his  sleep  and  begun 
to  breathe  with  that  moaning  noise  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  all  who  are  suffering  from  nocturnal 
thoughts.  Michael  watched  him,  wondering  what  he 
was  going  to  do,  and  when  with  the  inconsequent  yet 
terror-stricken  voice  of  those  who  talk  in  their  sleep, 
he  exclaimed :  "  Yirra  man !  Twist  the  diwle  out  of 
him — twist  the  diwle  out  of  him,"  the  frightened 
child  slid  out  of  bed  with  his  heart  thumping  against 
his  side. 

In  that  moment  he  decided  that  whatever  happened 
he  could  not  stay  there  any  longer  and  crept  to  the 
door  which  led  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  standing  just 
open,  so  that  in  entering  he  made  no  noise  to  disturb 
his  parents,  who,  unaware  of  his  presence,  were  still 
carrying  on  their  conversation.  He  would  have  gone 
on,  straight  to  his  mother's  side,  had  not  the  subject 
of  their  talking  at  that  moment  reached  his  ears. 
Hearing  his  name,  he  stopped  and  his  head  fell  into 
an  attitude  as  he  listened. 


THE  CELIBATE  SI 

"  Shure  that's  well  enough  for  Jamesy,"  his  mother 
was  saying,  "he's  just  the  lad  for  America.  But 
yirra,  what's  to  become  av  Michael,  I  dunno. 
There's  divvle  a  word  to  be  had  out  av  him,  tho'  he 
is  my  child." 

"Glory  be  to  God,  woman!"  said  Mr.  Everett. 
"  Is  ut  what's  to  be  done  with  Michael  ?  Shure  the 
boy's  been  made  out  for  a  preyst.  He  is  so.  D'ye 
mind  how  he  ran  squealin'  into  the  house  that  day  I 
killed  the  pig.''  D'ye  mind  that?  What  else  was 
ut — tell  me  now — what  else  was  ut  but  the  makin's 
av  a  preyst  that  drew  the  diwle's  own  yell  out  av 
him?" 

"  That's  all  very  well  for  ye,  but  where's  the  money 
to  be  got  from?  Will  ye  tell  me  that?  Sayin'  it 
won't  make  a  preyst  of  him." 

Michael  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  Creeping  back 
into  his  room  again  he  clambered  slowly  into  his  bed. 
All  fear  of  loneliness  had  been  driven  from  his  mind, 
but  before  he  lay  down  he  knelt  upright  on  the  hard 
straw  mattress  and  clasping  his  hands  together 
prayed  with  all  the  fervent  simplicity  of  his  eleven 
years. 

"  May  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  make  a  good 

preyst  of  me.     Shure  it's   a  great  thing  to  be  a 

preyst."     And  then  as  his  fingers  marked  the  cross — 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 

Ghost.     Amen." 

*  «  *  •  « 

This  knowledge,  which  he  kept  religiously  to  him- 
self, had  the  effect  of  making  him  more  reticent  and 
more  retiring  than  ever.     From  having  nothing  in 


82  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

common  with  his  brothers  and  very  little  with  his 
sister  Nora,  he  began  to  wander  off  by  himself  on  to 
the  cliflPs  that  ran  out  on  each  side  of  the  bay  to  meet 
the  crested  waves  of  the  Atlantic,  and  it  was  always 
the  one  thought  that  occupied  his  mind — ^he  was 
going  to  be  a  priest.  He  was  going  to  wear  those 
wonderful  vestments  and  celebrate  Mass.  He  was 
going  to  become  a  being  apart  from  every  one  else, 
whom,  though  now  his  brothers  looked  down  upon 
him,  they  would  then  treat  with  respect. 

Every  year  for  the  next  four  years  when  the  parish 
priest  came  to  the  farm  to  hold  the  yearly  station — a 
celebration  of  the  service  to  bless  the  house  and  its 
occupants — performing  the  Mass  from  the  old  red- 
painted  dresser  that  did  its  duty  for  an  altar,  he 
followed  closely  every  movement  of  the  man  of  God 
with  his  eyes,  and  eagerly  listened  to  every  word  that 
he  said.  And  when  the  priest  had  his  breakfast  alone 
in  the  parlour  after  the  Mass  was  over — this  room  on 
these  auspicious  occasions  being  set  apart  for  the 
purpose — Michael  would  wait  in  the  near  vicinity  of 
the  door  and  dream  of  the  time  when  one  day  he 
might  hold  that  post  of  honour  and  take  his  break- 
fast alone  in  the  parlour  of  some  country  farm, 
where  by  reason  of  his  calling  his  word  would  be  law. 

It  seemed  quite  a  wonderful  thing  to  him  that  such 
a  despotic  state  of  affairs  could  ever  exist  for  him. 
Yet  he  never  said  anything  about  what  he  had  heard, 
feeling  that  it  would  bring  shame  upon  him  should 
his  father  and  mother  change  their  minds,  though  in 
his  heart  he  knew  that  it  would  all  come  true. 

This  instinct  was  one  year  intensified  almost  to  a 


THE  CELIBATE  33 

certainty.  Coming  to  the  door  of  the  parlour  to 
call  for  something  that  he  needed  the  parish  priest 
saw  Michael  standing  outside,  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Would  ye  mind  telling  ye'er  mother,  Michael,"  he 
said,  "  that  I  haven't  got  a  knife,  and  shure  me 
fingers  aren't  as  sharp  as  I'd  like  'em  to  be  ?  " 

Michael  ran  off  to  get  the  article  himself,  and  re- 
turning with  it  brought  it  into  the  parlour.  As  he 
laid  it  on  the  table  the  priest  looked  up  at  him  and 
smiled. 

"  Ye're  a  bright  boy,  Michael,"  he  said  approvingly, 
"  how  old  are  ye  ?  " 

"  Thirteen,  Father.'* 
The  priest  scrutinized  him  critically. 

"Would  ye  Uke  to  be  a  priest  now,  Michael.'"'  he 
asked  acutely. 

The  boy  hung  his  head.  It  seemed  that  he  could 
not  believe  his  ears.  Was  It  true  indeed  that  the 
Father  thought  him  fitted  for  the  Priesthood  ?.  In 
his  mind  he  felt  a  priest  already. 

"  'Tis  a  fine  thing,  Michael,"  said  the  priest  quietly. 
"  'Tis  a  grand  and  holy  thing,"  he  repeated.  In  the 
boy's  silence  he  thought  he  saw  some  reluctance. 

But  there  was  no  reluctance  in  Michael's  mind. 
Had  there  been  any  this  would  have  dispelled  it  all. 

"  Shure,  I  would  like,"  he  said  bashfully.  "  I  would 
av  course." 

Then  the  Father  patted  his  head  and  said  that  they 
would  make  a  fine  man  of  him. 

That  was  the  incident,  and  with  his  childish  belief 
in  fate,  without  ever  having  heard  the  word  or  know- 


34  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

ing  that  it  found  no  place  within  the  vocabulary  of 
Church,  he  felt  that  it  prophesied  his  vocation  to  the 
priesthood. 

At  length,  however,  when  he  was  fourteen  years  old, 
his  mother  told  him  of  their  intentions  concerning 
him.  She  had  no  doubt  expected  that  he  would 
make  some  remark  upon  the  subject  and,  though  she 
felt  that  she  did  not  understand  him,  was  quite  ready 
to  quell  any  objections  should  he  raise  them.  But  to 
her  surprise  he  said  nothing.  Merely  lowering  his 
head  in  recognition  of  the  fact,  he  walked  through  the 
kitjchen  into  the  dairy  and  with  a  shrug  of  her  broad 
shoulders  Mrs.  Everett  went  in  search  of  her  husband. 

In  the  dairy  he  found  Molly  skimming  the  cream 
off  the  large  pans  of  milk.  Coming  to  her  side  he 
watched  silently  for  a  moment,  as  from  long  custom 
she  deftly  manipulated  the  little  wooden  skimmer. 

"Molly,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  She  did  not  look 
up.  "Molly,"  he  repeated,  "I'm  going  to  be  a 
preyst." 

To  his  utter  surprise  she  dropped  the  instrument 
into  the  milk  and  began  to  cry  with  heavy  sobs  that 
shook  the  whole  of  her  substantial  frame. 

"Yirra,  Michael,  God  bless  us!"  she  exclaimed 
between  her  gasps,  her  body  swaying  to  and  fro. 
"May  the  Blissid  Virgin  and  all  the  Blissid  Saints 
have  the  makin'  of  ye !  Shure  I  knew  'twas  a  preyst 
ye'd  be.  Musha,  child,  what  else  was  I  afther  sayin' 
to  Mrs.  Power  this  last  week  when  ye  were  confirmed? 
Yirra,  God  be  wid  the  days ! " 

She  tried  to  swallow  her  tears,  and  her  voice  sank 
to  a  whisper. 


THE  CELIBATE  86 

"An'  when  ye  do  be  hearin'  confession,  Michael," 
she  went  on  with  difficulty,  "  think  of  Molly  and 
forgive  women.  Shure  they  be  nothin'  in  the  hands 
of  men.  Musha,  what  is  ut  to  thim?  An'  there's  the 
diwle's  own  way  wid  'em." 

And  having  said  this,  without  rescuing  the  skimmer 
from  the  pan  of  milk,  she  burst  again  into  more  vio- 
lent sobbing  and  hurried  from  the  dairy,  endeavour- 
ing to  dry  her  eyes  in  the  same  old,  dirty  apron  upon 
which  all  the  washing  in  the  world  had  lost  its 
effect. 

It  was  not  until  a  few  weeks  had  elapsed  that  the 
meaning  of  her  words  was  in  any  way  revealed  to 
Michael's  mind  and  then  not  with  the  full  force 
of  their  significance.  The  poor  conscience-stricken 
woman  brought  a  child  into  the  world,  and  no  sooner 
was  she  able  to  rise  from  her  bed  and  walk,  than  it 
was  placed  in  her  arms  and  the  door  into  the  farm- 
yard opened  wide  for  her  departure. 

Clutching  the  little,  living  bundle  to  her  heart,  she 
cast  one  last  look  about  the  kitchen  with  all  its 
familiar  details  and  then  stepped  out  into  the  mud  of 
the  yard,  into  the  mire  of  existence  that  lay  before 
her.  Could  she  have  pointed  to  the  child's  father 
there  might  still  have  been  some  hope  of  life  in  front 
of  her;  but,  as  she  generously  argued,  it  was  bad 
enough  for  one  to  lose  position  and  friends,  and  if 
he  did  not  come  forward  of  his  own  accord  then  he 
might  stay  on  and^prosper  if  'twas  the  will  of  God. 

None  of  the  children  were  permitted  to  say  good- 
bye to  her,  but  Michael,  seeing  the  direction  she  had 
taken  after  she  had  left  the  house,  and  telling  himself 


86  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

that  one  who  had  treated  him  so  kindly  could  not  be 
so  bad  as  he  was  led  to  believe,  escaped  by  a  back 
way  and  overtook  her  on  the  country  road. 

Hearing  his  approach  she  stopped  and  turned,  then, 
seeing  who  it  was,  endeavoured  to  hurry  on.  But 
with  the  encumbrance  of  her  human  bundle  and  that 
pain  which  hangs  upon  the  footsteps  like  a  fetter,  she 
could  not  prevent  his  young  legs  from  coming  up 
with  her.  As  soon  as  she  saw  it  was  impossible  to 
avoid  him  she  stopped  again  and  turned. 

"Don't  come  an'  touch  me!"  she  exclaimed 
hysterically.  "  I'm  not  fit  to  be  touched  by  the 
likes  av  ye.     I'm  a  bad  'ooman — I  tell  ye  I'm  bad." 

He  stopped  a  few  yards  away  from  her,  brought  to 
a  standstill  by  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

"  Ye're  goin'  to  be  a  preyst,"  she  continued  wildly, 
"  then  ye'll  hate  me  and  the  hkes  av  me." 

*'  Shure,  I  niver  heard  av  a  preyst  hatin'  any  one," 
he  remarked. 

"Maybe  so  and  maybe  not.  But  there  bain't  no 
forgiveness  for  this,  not  that  I  iver  heard  av.  Go 
home,  Michael,"  she  added  more  gently,  '*  yeer 
mother'll  be  right  mad  if  she  heard  about  ye  comin* 
af ther  the  likes  av  me.  Yirra,  God  help  us !  When 
I  thinks  av  ut,  maybe  'twas  all  my  own  fault.  Shure 
I  suppose  I'm  afther  deservin'  ut  all.  Wisha,  shure  I 
looked  at  him  first,  I  suppose,  and  maybe  that's  what 
done  ut.  Ah,  go  home,  Michael,  ah  do.  I  don't 
know  what  I  do  be  sayin'." 

After  this  she  turned  and  without  another  word 
went  up  the  long  road  that  leads  from  Ballyporeen 
into  the  district  of  Boreenmanagh,  not  even  casting 


THE   CELIBATE  87 

one  glance  behind  her  to  where  Michael  stood  and 
watched  her  departing  figure. 

Her  brown  shawl  spreading  round  her  shoulders 
was  caught  tightly  overhead,  shielding  her  face,  and 
the  wind  racing  up  the  road  caught  her  thin  skirt  in 
passing  and  bound  it  against  her  legs  as  she  walked. 
Michael  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  retreating  figure, 
and  when  she  turned  the  far  comer  that  hid  her 
finally  from  view  he  walked  back  slowly  to  the  farm 
with  a  growing  sense  of  loss  in  his  mind  that  for  the 
time  being  ecKpsed  all  thought  of  the  priesthood. 


CHAPTER   IV 

It  was  when  he  was  nearing  sixteen  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Everett  began  to  question  the  means  of  obtain- 
ing the  sum  of  money  for  the  fees  necessary  to 
Michael's  becoming  a  priest.  The  last  two  or  three 
years  had  been  exceptionally  bad  ones  for  the  farmer. 
Crops  had  been  ruined  at  the  moment  of  ripening, 
the  potato  harvests  had  been  poor,  and  expenditure 
over  some  of  the  cattle  that  had  died  had  made  but 
meagre  incomings.  They  had  consulted  the  parish 
priest,  who,  being  strongly  in  favour  of  Michael's 
taking  orders,  had  suggested  that  no  doubt  some  of 
the  more  wealthy  Catholics  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Ballyporeen  and  Boreenmanagh  would  be  willing  to 
contribute  to  the  sum  that  was  required. 

As  far  as  they,  honest  and  well-faring  farmers,  were 
concerned,  this  solution  of  the  difficulty  was  utterly 
out  of  the  question.  Their  position  would  fall  irrev- 
ocably in  the  eyes  of  every  one  as  soon  as  the  village 
came  to  hear  of  it. 

"  An'  shure,  if  Mrs.  Lane  up  on  the  cliff  there  gave 
wan  pinny  av  her  savin's,"  Mrs.  Everett  remarked, 
"  yirra  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  every  wan  in  Bally- 
poreen was  afther  bein'  told  av  ut." 

No — family  pride  alone  was  sufficient  to  put  that 
course  of  action  completely  out  of  the  question. 
Public  opinion  is  a  despotic  monarch  holding  sway 
in  the  remotest  comers  of  the  civilized  world ;  and  so 

38 


THE   CELIBATE  S9 

it  was  that  they  accepted  the  only  way  that  remained 
to  them. 

Tom,  the  eldest  son,  must  be  married.  Tom  was 
only  twenty-six.  It  was  young  for  him,  no  doubt, 
but  he  must  be  married;  and  with  the  coming  of  his 
wife  into  the  farm  his  parents  knew  they  must  yield 
up  their  seats  of  the  mighty  to  the  newcomer. 

It  was  no  little  matter  for  them  to  agree  to  this 
sacrifice  of  their  supremacy  to  a  stranger;  yet  if 
Michael  was  to  be  a  priest — an  honour  so  dear  to 
many  a  mother's  mind — -the  money  must  be  obtained 
for  him  in  a  rightful  way,  and  Tom's  marriage  was 
the  only  means  of  procuring  it. 

If  Tom  married  it  meant  that  his  wife  would  bring 
in  a  certain  sum  with  her  as  a  dowry,  which  would 
morally  be  her  price  for  that  position — the  mistress 
of  the  household — which  Mrs.  Everett  had  obtained 
in  the  same  way  and  held  ever  since  the  day  of  her 
wedding.  That  sum,  or  part  of  it,  was  needed  for 
Michael's  education,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
custom  of  the  land  Mr.  Everett's  brother  was  invited 
to  the  farm,  given  a  good  round  meal,  plentifully 
interspersed  with  glasses  of  porter,  and  like  Laban 
of  old  sent  off,  not  without  some  idea  of  his  destina- 
tion, into  the  furthest  ends  of  the  county  in  search  of 
a  girl  for  Tom. 

This  was  quite  the  natural  course  of  affairs.  It  did 
not  seem  peculiar  to  Tom  that  his  choice  in  the 
matter  was  a  question  that  was  never  referred  to; 
and  as  for  Michael  he  only  regretted  that  his  parents 
should  be  compelled  to  make  this  sacrifice  for  hia 
sake.     Nearljr  every  one  else  whom  he  knew  had 


40  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

married  under  the  same  conditions,  except  those 
whose  position  in  life  was  so  inconsiderable  as  to 
enable  them  to  choose  the  first  who  came  along.  That 
his  brother  should  for  a  moment  desire  to  assert  a 
preference  for  any  girl  but  her  whom  his  parents  had 
chosen  never  entered  his  mind. 

Women,  as  his  environment  had  taught  him  to 
look  at  them,  were  either  good  wives  or  would  become 
them;  either  bad  wives,  or  such  that  a  man  would 
not  think  of  marrying  them.  Beyond  that  point 
of  view  he  had  not  considered  their  existence  at  all. 
They  took  their  place — to  his  mind  a  very  subordi- 
nate one — in  the  scheme  of  things,  and  were,  if  they 
were  virtuous,  as  useful  to  men  as  his  mother  was  to 
his  father.  But  any  sign  of  affection  which  would 
betray  an  appreciation  of  anything  more  than  the 
way  his  mother  managed  her  dairy  he  had  never 
seen  his  father  express.  A  loving  and  domesticated 
relationship  was,  in  fact,  almost  non-existent  between 
married  people  such  as  he  had  met,  and  so,  if  ever  he 
did  chance  to  hear  of  it,  the  matter  had  no  weight 
with  him. 

After  a  fortnight's  search  the  Laban  of  the  family 
returned,  bearing  with  him  the  news  that  the  very 
girl  was  found  for  Tom.  More  glasses  of  porter  were 
then  consumed,  more  on  principle  than  because  the 
event  was  really  a  joyful  one;  and  a  day  being  fixed, 
before  the  young  couple  were  permitted  to  see  each 
other,  the  father  and  mother  of  the  future  bride  paid 
a  visit  to  the  farm  at  Ballyporeen  with  the  intention 
of  valuing  Mr.  Everett's  stock-in-trade  before  they 
came  to  terms  with  regard  to  the  dowry. 


THE   CELIBATE  41 

This  process  of  valuation  was  not  without  its 
quaintness  of  custom.  Mr.  Everett,  concerning  him- 
self entirely  with  the  outdoor  life,  showed  the  father 
round  the  farm,  and  whilst  they  were  calculating  up 
the  number  of  acres  to  a  i)erch,  Mrs.  Everett  with 
her  strident  voice  was  enumerating  in  laudatory 
tones  the  household  goods  and  displaying  them  for 
the  approval  of  Tom's  future  mother-in-law. 

Glass,  china,  linen,  in  fact  every  conceivable  pos- 
session in  the  house,  were  laid  before  her  eyes  and 
counted,  each  and  all  of  which  the  visitor  looked 
upon  contemplatively  in  that  trying  mood  of 
silent  criticism  which  well-nigh  breaks  the  show- 
man's heart. 

At  length,  however,  as  the  long  day  drew  to  its 
close,  the  final  arrangements  were  settled  and  the 
dowry  agreed  upon.  Thus  Tom  virtually  became  a 
husband  before  he  had  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
his  wife.  Two  days  afterwards  they  were  brought 
together  for  the  first  time,  and  some  ten  days  later 
the  inviolable  bond  of  matrimony  had  made  them 
one. 

Michael  was  present  neither  at  the  ceremony  nor 
the  feast  of  rejoicing  that  followed  after.  No  doubt 
if  he  had  been,  he  would  have  discovered  that  there 
are  more  signs  of  humanity  in  a  man  and  a  woman 
who  are  mere  strangers  than  he  had  imagined. 

In  view  of  the  forthcoming  dowry  he  had  been 
started  off  to  Maynooth,  where  the  beginning  of  the 
new  and  stringent  life  that  was  to  be  his  lay  stretched 
before  him,  and  there  for  the  next  eight  years  his 
days  and  nights  were  spent  in  a  life  of  strictest 


'42  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

seclusion  except  for  the  relaxation  of  his  holidays 
when  he  returned  to  the  sohtude  of  Ballyporeen. 

The  other  boys  with  whom  he  was  thrown  In  contact 
were  drawn  from  very  much  the  same  class  as  himself, 
sons  of  farmers,  landowners  and  tradesmen,  whose 
vocations  were  the  results  of  many  varying  circum- 
stances, many  varying  environments.  One  and  all 
their  outlook  upon  life  was  very  similar  to  Michael's 
Ingenuous  Idea  of  things;  and  though  the  variety 
of  character  which  must  exist  In  any  community 
of  boys,  however  large  or  small,  brought  out  little 
natural  differences  at  every  turn,  yet  in  the  main  he 
found  no  perceptible  change  coming  In  his  mental 
arrangement  of  the  conceptions  that  had  grown  in 
him  from  his  youth. 

Whenever  he  returned  home  for  his  holidays  It  was 
with  the  warning  lingering  In  his  ears  that  there  are 
many  temptations  in  the  world  and  that  he  should 
avoid  them  with  the  fear  of  damnation. 

But  what  temptation,  for  instance,  was  there  in 
dancing,  as  the  Father  had  suggested  ? 

"Don't  join  them  when  they're  after  dancing  at  the 
cross  roads,"  Father  Anthony  had  Impressed  upon 
him.     *'  There's  no  fun  in  it,  and  faith,  It's  all  sinful." 

But  It  was  no  temptation  to  him  because  he  had 
never  wished  to  dance.  The  reticence  of  his  manner 
and  the  hesitation  of  his  conversation  were  such  that 
he  knew  did  not  appeal  to  the  girls  In  Ballyporeen 
with  whom  he  might  come  Into  contact.  They  Uked 
a  man  to  be  amusing  like  his  brother  Jamesy,  who 
had  the  reputation  at  home  of  being  a  fine  boy. 
Jamesy  could  make  them  laugh,  but  even  had  Michael 


THE   CELIBATE  43 

possessed  the  ambition  to  do  such  a  thing,  he  could 
not  have  succeeded.  Again,  the  Father  had  told 
him  not  to  go  to  the  theatres  or  read  those  books 
which  were  to  be  defined  as  novels.  But  he  had 
never  seen  a  theatre  in  his  life,  and  as  for  a  novel, 
none  of  it  was  true,  therefore  how  could  it  possibly 
be  interesting  or  worth  the  reading.'*  Moreover  a 
novel  in  Ballyporeen  had  never  been  seen  inside  the 
houses  whither  he  was  accustomed  to  go.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  these  things  did  not  apply  to  him 
and  could  have  no  bearing  upon  his  conduct  during 
the  holidays. 

Avoid  all  women !  That  certainly  he  could  obey 
and  did,  finding  that  it  was  by  no  means  a  difficult 
task,  since  the  moment  that  he  returned  wearing  the 
clerical  collar  all  the  girls  in  the  village  avoided 
him. 

The  boy  who  is  cast  for  the  service  of  God,  he 
discovered,  is  little  less  than  a  wet  blanket  upon  the 
exuberant  spirits  of  youth.  And  besides  all  this, 
was  there  not  the  example  of  St.  Aloysius,  whom 
Father  Anthony  had  so  wisely  advised  him  to  imitate 
— St.  Aloysius,  who  would  not  even  look  upon  the 
face  of  his  own  mother.?  That  indeed  was  a  precept 
which,  if  he  followed,  would  cast  aside  all  the  re- 
motest probabilities  of  temptation  that  the  priest 
had  alluded  to,  but  which  in  his  heart  Jie  could  not 
believe  to  be  applicable  to  himself. 

So  the  time  sped  on,  for  the  study  of  philosophy, 
on  which  he  was  compelled  to  take  a  long  course, 
was  one  in  which  he  found  an  ever-increasing  interest. 
The  reasoning  of  the  mind,  though  dictated  to  and 


44.  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

in  a  great  sense  ruled  by  a  spirit  of  faith,  made  a 
large  appeal  to  his  intellect  ;  and,  almost  at  the 
expense  of  his  physical  health,  he  threw  his  whole 
interest  into  its  pursuit. 

In  this  object  he  was  to  a  great  extent  encouraged 
by  the  Fathers,  who  foresaw  in  him  the  future  of  a 
man  of  God  distinctly  above  the  average  intelligence 
in  his  ability  to  promote  and  increase  the  welfare  of 
the  Church.  And  so  it  was,  when  he  returned  home 
for  his  holidays,  that  he  brought  a  considerable 
number  of  philosophical  treatises,  and  taking  them 
with  him  out  on  to  the  cliffs  would  find  some  quiet 
spot  where  he  would  be  undisturbed  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day. 

After  three  years,  when  he  had  just  reached  the 
age  of  nineteen,  he  took  the  tonsure  and  minor 
orders.  The  vow  of  chastity  which  would  consecrate 
him  to  the  celibacy  of  the  Church  he  was  not  expected 
to  take  until  he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one. 

On  one  occasion  a  boy  of  the  same  age  as  himself 
was  walking  with  him  in  the  grounds  of  the  college. 
Michael  was  discussing  the  approach  of  the  day  when 
they  would  both  be  called  upon  to  take  the  step  when 
his  companion  expressed  a  hesitating  doubt  as  to 
whether  he  would  find  himself  willing  when  the 
moment  arrived. 

For  a  few  moments  Michael  was  silent,  but  when 
at  length  he  did  speak  there  was  no  great  depth  of 
sympathy  in  his  voice.  His  first  question  touched, 
as  in  fact  he  knew  it  would,  the  most  sensitive  spot 
in  Maurice  Holland's — his  companion's — mind. 

"What  will  ye  do.?"  he  asked.     "Will  ye  tell  yer 


THE   CELIBATE  45 

people?  What  would  they  think  of  ye  now  if  ye 
told  them  that?" 

Maurice  hesitated. 

"I  wouldn't  tell  them.  I'd  go  straight  away  from 
here  to  London.  Shure,  I  wouldn't  dare  to  face  them. 
I'd  go  to  London.  I  can  do  a  little  painting.  Father 
Anthony  said  the  other  day  that  one  of  these  times 
I  might  make  some  money  by  designing  things  for 
the  churches  if  I  was  sent  on  the  English  mission. 
And  there  are  illustrated  papers  in  London.  I've 
seen  them  once  or  twice.  Shure,  that's  how  I'd  man- 
age.    I  would,  of  course." 

"Ye'd  live  in  London — one  of  the  worst  places  in 
the  world?" 

"All  cities  are  the  same,  shure.  Some  one  must 
live  in  them." 

Michael  allowed  his  thoughts  to  work  themselves 
out  in  silence.  To  say  the  least  of  it,  he  was  shocked, 
pained  that  the  one  boy  with  whom  he  had  formed 
the  greatest  friendship  in  the  college  should  at  such 
a  moment  throw  up  his  vocation  and  take  away  his 
hand  from  the  plough.  He  was  quite  aware  that  such 
things  did  occur  but,  so  far  as  he  had  heard  of  them, 
they  had  generally  happened  in  the  case  of  a  boy  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen  who  had  been  labouring  under  the 
mistaken  idea  that  the  priesthood  was  not  so  serious 
a  calling  as  his  acquaintance  with  the  secular  college 
had  proved  it  to  be.  But  that  after  five  years  at 
Maynooth,  when  experience  must  have  taught  him 
how  noble  yet  how  severe  a  life  this  mission  of  God 
would  have  to  be,  when  he  had  arrived  at  the  age  of 
nineteen,  a  time  when  surely  discretion  must  come  to 


46  THE   APPLE  OF  EDEN 

all  those  who  look  on  at  life  with  any  degree  of 
seriousness,  Maurice  Holland,  his  only  friend,  should 
declare  his  unwillingness  to  take  the  vow  of  chastity ! 
He  confessed  to  himself  that  it  was  more  that  he  could 
sympathize  with  or  understand. 

"  An'  what's  your  reason  ? "  he  asked,  after  the 
silence  which  his  thoughts  had  enforced  between  them. 
**  What  makes  ye  feel  like  this  about  it,  anyway  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  my  thoughts,"  said  Maurice.  "  It's 
all  very  well  to  say  that  prayin'  '11  drive  those  things 
out  of  your  mind,  but  ye  can't  go  on  prayin'  for  ever. 
Ye  must  take  yer  breath  sometimes.  An'  it's  just 
when  I  stop  to  take  my  breath,  as  ye  might  say,  that 
I  find  there's  the  very  diwle  in  me.  Shure,  isn't  it 
better  to  stop  before  it's  too  late.?" 

**  But  what  d'ye  think  about,  for  goodness'  sake  ?  '* 

*' There  was  a  girl  in  Belfast "  Maurice  began. 

Michael's  lip  curled  with  contempt. 

"Ah,  shure,  ye'd  better  go,"  he  said  coldly.  "Go 
and  do  yer  drawin'  in  London.  Women  are  always 
the  cause  of  all  that's  vile  and  hateful  in  this  world. 
They  come  in  the  way  of  a  man's  finest  thoughts. 
They're  the  means  of  overthrowing  his  greatest  ambi- 
tions, because  they  influence  that  side  of  him  which 
belongs  to  the  beasts  and  succeed  in  making  a  beast  of 
him.  They  don't  care  a  straw  whether  he  might  have 
been  a  better  man  had  they  left  him  alone." 

"Ye're  only  repeating  what  Father  Anthony  says 
every  time  we  go  home." 

"  An'  shure,  isn't  it  true?  "  retorted  Michael.  "  Shure 
it  is.  I  can't  think,"  he  added  in  the  heat  of  his 
endeavour    to    save    the    soul    of    his    friend,    "I 


THE  CELIBATE  m 

can't  think  why  ye  don't  hate  that  side  of  life  like 
I  do." 

"  An'  why  do  ye  hate  it  ?  Because  ye've  never  seen 
a  girl  that  ye  thought  was  pretty.  Ye've  never  seen 
a  girl  that  made  ye  feel  sort  of  like  a  fool  when  ye 
looked  at  her." 

"Glory  be  to  God!  What's  her  prettiness  to  do 
with  it?  She's  just  as  much  a  woman  as  any  other, 
isn't  she  ?  What  difference  does  it  make  if  she's  what 
ye  call  pretty?  She's  one  of  the  same  sex,  isn't  she? 
Ye  say  I've  never  met  a  girl  I've  thought  was  pretty. 
Maybe  ye're  right  there — ^but  faith,  it's  because  I've 
never  looked  about  for  her  like  ye  have.  An'  shure, 
aren't  there  a  good  many  other  men  besides  Father 
Anthony  who  think  just  the  same  as  I  do?  There 
are,  of  course.  *  Avoid  foolish  and  old  wives'  fables ; 
and  exercise  thyself  unto  Godliness,'  is  what  St.  Paul 
said  to  Timothy,  and  shure  that's  just  what  ye're  not 
doing,  Maurice.  Ye've  been  listening  to  fables  and  so 
ye've  become  weak." 

"  I've  become  a  man,  that's  what  I  have,"  Holland 
replied,  wrought  up  to  retaliation  by  these  accusa- 
tions. "  Maybe  if  ye'd  given  yerself  time  ye'd  have 
come  to  think  the  same  as  I  do.  I've  developed  quicker 
than  ye,  I  suppose.  They  always  said  at  home  I  was 
too  old  for  my  years.  I  was  bom  in  a  city ;  ye  were 
born  abroad  in  the  country.  Maybe  that  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  difference.  Ye  come  at  life 
slowly  in  the  country.  Ye  do  so.  Anyway  I  can't 
take  the  step  to  be  chaste  and  a  celibate,  when  I  know 
that  what's  inside  of  me  is  the  result  of  God's 
giving." 


i»  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

** There's  no  calling  for  blasphemy!"  exclaimed 
Michael  in  the  fever  of  his  disappointment. 

"  Maybe  not — ^but  there's  plenty  for  being  natural." 

And  so  ended  the  discussion.  A  day  or  two  later 
Maurice  Holland  left  Maynooth.  No  explanation 
was  given  to  the  boys  for  the  reason  of  his  departure. 
The  matter  was  kept  out  of  all  conversation.  Only 
Michael  was  aware  of  it,  and  in  his  heart  he  prayed 
that  Maurice  might  find  out  his  mistake  before  it  was 
too  late. 

Three  years  subsequent  to  this,  when  Michael  had 
been  accepted  into  the  deaconate  preparatory  to  his 
final  ordination,  he  received  at  Ballyporeen  a  letter 
from  Maurice  Holland  saying  that  he  had  found  the 
other  things  in  life  and  was  contented  with  them. 
He  had  got  a  small  attic  studio  in  London  and  was 
Ijust  paying  his  way.  His  epistle  concluded  with  the 
suggestion  that  if  Michael  should  ever  come  to 
[England  it  would  give  him  the  greatest  pleasure  to 
see  him  again. 

So  terminated,  practically  for  ever,  his  first  friend- 
ship, for  though  they  did  meet  afterwards  under  more 
or  less  intimate  conditions,  the  great  gulf  had  been 
fixed  between  them  in  the  outset  of  their  views,  and 
the  severance  of  friendship  by  religious  differences 
is  a  gap  wide  to  span. 

In  the  next  and  last  three  years  of  his  novitiate, 
which  passed  quickly  enough,  Michael  grew  more  and 
more  in  the  favour  and  opinion  of  the  Fathers  imder 
whose  tutorship  he  had  been  placed.  Besides  the 
reputation  which  he  had  earned  for  the  exemplary 
yirtues  that  he  displayed  he  had  gained  their  approval 


THE  CELIBATE  49 

no  less  in  the  advancement  of  his  intellectual  capaci- 
ties. They  promised  for  him  a  brilliant  future,  so 
far  as  brilliancy  is  to  be  attained  in  the  Irish  priest- 
hood, and  when  the  day  for  the  acceptance  of  the  vow 
of  chastity  came  round  there  was  probably  no  boy  in 
all  the  college  more  willing,  more  eager,  yet  none 
more  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  sacrifice,  to  take 
the  final  step. 

With  youth  and  its  enthusiasms  one  may  fill  the 
world  with  martyrs,  for  it  is  only  when  the  years 
begin  to  pass  over  our  heads  that  we  value  life  because 
there  is  less  of  it  to  run.  Youth  is  the  Golden  Age, 
and  those  who  wish  to  people  fairyland  must  take 
their  captives  early,  before  they  come  to  know  that 
castles  are  not  built  of  air  but  of  the  coldest  stone. 

When  Mass  had  been  said  in  the  chapel  the  Bishop 
seated  himself  on  his  faldstool  with  his  back  to  the 
High  Altar.  In  all  the  glory  of  his  vestments,  with 
his  staff  and  jewelled  mitre,  he  was  indeed  the  High 
Priest  of  the  Old  Testament  presenting  alive  the  sac- 
rifice before  the  Lord  to  make  an  atonement  with  him 
and  to  let  him  go  for  a  scapegoat  into  the  wilderness. 

As  the  voice  of  the  Archdeacon  stirred  the  preg- 
nant silence,  "Let  those  approach  who  are  to  be 
ordained,"  the  youthful  candidates  all  ranged  them- 
selves in  a  semicircle  at  some  little  distance  before  the 
Bishop. 

Children  almost  they  seemed,  as  in  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  chapel  they  stood  there,  all  wearing  the 
alb  bound  round  the  waist  by  a  pure  white  woollen 
girdle;  the  purple  vestments,  which  they  soon  would 
call  their  own,  folded  and  hanging  over  their  arms 


so  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEK 

whilst  a  lighted  candle  burnt  flickeringly  in  their 
right  hands. 

"  Dominus  Michael  Everett  ad  titulum  Excelsiae." 

And  to  this  calling  of  his  name  he  answered 
**  Adsum." 

When  all  the  candidates  had  thus  similarly  replied, 
holding  the  maniple  in  his  left  hand  and  putting  on 
his  mitre  the  Bishop  began  in  hurried  voice  to  address 
them  from  the  book  that  had  been  placed  before  him. 

It  was  all  in  Latin,  but  the  simplest  form  of  the 
language  which  even  one  who  was  no  scholar  could 
easily  have  understood,  but  for  the  benefit  of  the 
reader  its  English  equivalent  is  here  set  forth.  Not 
until  he  came  to  the  last  sentence  did  the  voice  of  the 
Bishop  abate  its  speed,  and  then  with  the  concen- 
trated seriousness  of  the  moment  he  spoke  slowly — 
clearly — giving  each  word  the  fulness  of  its  weight. 

"Beloved  sons,  in  that  you  are  to  be  received  into 
the  order  of  subdeacon,  you  must  reflect  carefuUy 
again  and  again  what  manner  of  life  you  are  taking 
on  yourselves.  Up  to  this  you  have  been  free,  you 
have  been  able  to  turn  at  will  to  secular  concerns ;  but 
if  you  receive  this  order  you  can  no  longer  retreat 
from  your  position  but  must  serve  God,  whose  service 
is  to  reign." 

Here  his  voice  became  slow  and  more  distinct,  and 
one  or  two  of  the  candidates — for  all  had  been  warned 
beforehand  of  this  crucial  moment — shifted  the  posi- 
tions of  their  attention  from  one  foot  to  the  other.- 
But  Michael  stood  firm.  He  had  not  moved  his  body 
or  taken  his  eyes  from  the  Bishop's  face  since  this, 
the  most  vital  part  of  the  ceremony,  had  begun. 


THE   CELIBATE  61 

**And  you  must  observe  chastity,"  the  Bishop  con- 
tinued solemnly,  "  with  His  help,  and  must  be  for  ever 
faithful  to  the  ministry  of  the  Church;  therefore," 
and  here  the  Bishop  paused  between  each  word, 
*'  reflect  while  there  is  time,  and  if  you  are  minded  to 
persevere  in  your  holy  resolution,  in  the  name  of 
God — come  forward." 

And  so,  having  reflected  while,  in  those  few  moments, 
there  was  time  they  all  took  one  step  nearer  to  the 
Bishop's  faldstool,  children  for  one  moment,  prisoners 
to  the  law  of  celibacy  the  next. 

The  strength  of  mind  necessary  to  the  refusal  of 
that  command  is  not  often  to  be  found,  and  few  in- 
deed have  held  in  that  moment  the  power  of  con- 
viction to  fall  behind  and  withstand  the  scorn  of 
their  fellows. 

Not  that  Michael  so  much  as  even  hesitated.  His 
step  was  bold,  full  of  the  pious  determination  that  had 
taken  root  upon  the  susceptibilities  of  his  youth,  and 
it  would  not  have  seemed  to  him,  had  he  looked  over 
his  shoulder  to  where  the  moment  before  he  had  been 
standing,  that  he  had  left  anything  behind  him  in 
which  he  would  ever  find  cause  for  regret. 

And  so  here,  except  for  his  final  ordination,  Michael 
set  the  seal  upon  his  novitiate  days.  He  was  more 
than  half-way  to  the  priesthood  of  God.  He  had 
taken  that  step,  compulsory — ^justifiably  so  it  seemed 
then  to  him — to  ordination,  without  which  he  could 
not  celebrate  Mass  or  bring  himself  into  that  closer 
connection  with  the  Almighty  which  was  the  peculiar 
advantage  of  the  Priest  of  God.  In  those  few  short 
years  of  almost  solitary  confinement  he  had  shown 


62  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

himself  to  have  acquired  and  to  be  practised  in  all 
the  virtues  necessary  for  the  priest ;  had  proved  him- 
self, in  the  multitude  of  opportunities  that  were  to  be 
found  in  those  years  of  confinement,  to  be  at  least  of 
a  tried  chastity.  And  thus  at  that  immature  age  of 
twenty-one,  before  his  senses  were  developed,  and 
before  in  his  body  he  had  become  a  man,  he,  with  the 
vow  of  chastity,  became  a  celibate.  He  had  sworn 
to  leave  all  women  untouched  who  had  never  con- 
sidered the  possibiHtjr  of  one  woman  touching  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

So  was  It,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  after  nine 
years  of  closest  intimacy  with  books  and  some  few 
months  subsequent  to  his  ordination,  that  Father 
Michael  Everett  received  his  orders  to  be  stationed  as 
curate  in  Rathmore,  a  little  fishing  village  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  county  of  Waterford  to  his  native 
village  of  Ballyporeen. 

In  all  the  ardour  of  his  newly-found  position  he 
threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his  work,  never 
forgetting  that  in  his  oflSce  as  priest  of  the  Church  he 
was  raised  far  above  the  minds  of  his  people,  yet  still 
continuing  the  pursuit  of  theology  and  philosophy  in 
the  silence  of  his  own  chamber. 

Father  Connelly,  the  parish  priest,  admitted  to  the 
Bishop,  after  the  first  year  of  his  acquaintance  with 
his  new  curate,  that  he  had  never  anticipated  finding 
such  zeal  and  energy  in  one  of  Father  Michael's  age. 
But  there  they  were,  and  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
who  would  fail  to  recognize  them.  He  did  not  feel  it 
incumbent  upon  him,  however,  to  acquaint  Father 
Michael  with  the  fact,  arguing  in  his  materialistic 
fashion  that  when  virtue  is  given  any  reward  but  itself 
it  becomes  insatiate  in  its  appetite  for  praise. 

So  he  said  nothing  either  to  thwart  or  encourage 
this  treasure  of  the  priesthood  who  worked  unceas- 
ingly, indef atigably  so  it  seemed,  from  mom  tiU  the 
late  hours  of  the  night.  But  if  Father  Connelly  said 
nothing,  nature  was  determined  not  to  be  done  out 
of  her  word  in  the  matter.     A  very  few  months 

£3 


64  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

had  passed  before  Father  Michael  found  that  the 
body  which  he  had  left  behind,  casting  it  from  him 
when  he  had  taken  the  step  so  that  his  mind  should 
not  be  handicapped  in  the  race,  was  beginning  to 
come  in  sight  with  a  persistency  that  was  inevitable. 
For  some  time  before  the  confession  which  has  been 
recounted  in  the  commencement  of  this  narrative  he 
had  begun  to  find  that  the  hour  of  going  to  bed 
brought  no  sleep  with  it.  For  what  seemed  like  an 
eternity  of  time  to  him  he  would  lie  awake  in  his 
little  room  with  its  low  and  sloping  ceiling  until  the 
dawn  began  to  creep  in  through  the  thin  muslin 
blinds  and  paint  with  uncertain  light  the  various 
objects  about  him.  And  after  this  state  of  affairs 
had  continued  for  some  time  he  came  to  dread  the 
thought  of  retiring  to  bed  for  fear  of  those  long, 
interminable  hours  between  midnight  and  morning. 

Tossing  from  side  to  side,  turning  his  pillow  first 
one  way  and  then  another  when  the  heat  of  it  became 
unendurable,  he  would  endeavour  to  quiet  himself 
with  prayer  and  the  repetition  of  portions  of  his  office 
— ^anything  that  could  bring  his  mind  into  a  state  of 
methodical  monotony  of  thought.  But  even  the  most 
devout  moments  of  his  praying  were  interrupted  by 
the  rude  insistence  of  some  imperative  idea  which 
had  no  rational  bearing  upon  that  which  he  was 
endeavouring  to  fix  in  his  mind. 

To  avoid  the  agony  of  these  moments  he  sat  up 
later  at  night,  read  longer,  hoping  to  compel  by 
sheer  weariness  the  approach  of  sleep.  But  though 
he  found  that  in  the  light — and  while  occupying  his 
mind  with  the  book  before  him — all  the  imperative 


THE   CELIBATE  66 

ideas  that  so  tortured  him  when  in  the  dark  had  lost 
their  power;  yet  the  moment  he  retired  to  his  room 
and  got  into  bed  they  returned  unchained  like  the 
very  devils  of  conscience  in  a  guilty  mind. 

At  last  he  found  that  he  was  beginning  to  try  to 
do  without  sleep  altogether,  and  knowing  that  it 
would  ultimately  wreck  his  health,  he  went  one  morn- 
ing, two  days  after  the  young  man's  confession,  to 
Doctor  Giveen.  This  old  gentleman  besides  being 
the  dispensary  doctor  commanded  all  the  practice 
that  was  to  be  cajoled  out  of  a  healthy  people  for 
many  miles  around. 

Walking  up  the  short  avenue  to  the  doctor's  house, 
he  endeavoured  to  arrange  in  his  mind  how  he  should 
describe  his  symptoms^  He  found,  however,  that  he 
had  pulled  the  dilapidated  bell  before  he  had  arrived 
at  any  definite  form  of  description. 

Annie  Rooney,  the  daughter  of  the  doctor's  facto- 
tum, who  ran  all  the  old  gentleman's  messages  for 
him,  except  when  speed  was  required  of  her,  opened 
the  door.  She  held  it  just  wide  enough  for  her  head 
to  be  seen.     Father  Michael  stepped  forward. 

"  Is  the  doctor  in.?  '* 

"He  is.  Father." 

*'  Tell  him  I  want  to  see  him." 

The  girl  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  opened  the 
door  a  little  wider. 

"  He's  not  out  of  bed  yet.  Father." 

The  priest  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock.  Four  hours  before  then  he  had  been  cele- 
brating mass  at  the  convent,  and  the  day  was  begin- 
ning to  seem  well  worn  to  him- 


66  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

"  I'll  wait  in  his  sitting-room  then,"  he  said,  and  he 
walked  into  the  parlour  where  the  breakfast  was 
already  laid. 

Wandering  aimlessly  about  the  plainly-furnished 
room  he  came  to  a  small  occasional  table  covered 
with  a  badly-stained  red  cloth  that  stood  in  the 
window.  On  the  top  of  a  pile  of  ancient  papers  and 
magazines,  placed  there  in  characteristic  confusion, 
was  a  book  bound  unobtrusively  in  a  dark-green 
cover. 

He  picked  it  up  and  read  the  title,  "  In  the  Wake." 
It  conveyed  nothing  to  him  beyond  the  mere  fact  that 
no  doubt  it  was  a  novel.  Had  he  heard  that  the 
English  critics  had  reviewed  it  with  both  unstinted 
praise  and  carping  sarcasm,  it  would  have  succeeded 
in  creating  no  further  interest  in  his  mind.  Novels 
were  things  that  he  never  read.  They  were  fabrica- 
tions of  the  imagination.  He  was  concerned  with  his 
own  soul  and  the  souls  of  others. 

Only  that  he  had  those  few  moments  of  idle  time 
on  his  hands  he  would  have  laid  the  book  aside  with- 
out taking  any  further  notice  of  it  beyond  the  title; 
but  being  compelled  to  wait  for  the  doctor  he  hstlessly 
opened  it  at  the  first  page.  It  was  a  blank.  The 
thought  entered  his  mind  humorously  that  that  was 
probably  the  cleanest  page  in  the  whole  book.  The 
second,  as  he  turned  it  over,  was  just  saved  from 
being  the  same  by  a  few  lines  written  in  italics.  As 
this  was  the  first  piece  of  print  that  he  had  discovered 
he  looked  at  it  closely  in  order  to  read  what  was 
written — 

"  Yea,  and  if  men  have  gathered  together  gold  and 


THE   CELIBATE  57 

silver  and  every  other  goodly  things  and  see  a  woman 
which  is  comely  in  favour  and  beauty,  they  let  all 
these  things  go  and  gape  after  her." 

He  let  the  hand  that  held  the  book  fall  to  his  side, 
though  his  fingers  still  marked  the  place,  and  a  smile 
ironically  twisted  the  sensitive  expression  of  his  upper 
lip. 

It  was  just  what  he  might  have  expected,  he  thought 
to  himself.  The  sex  question,  as  he  had  vaguely 
heard,  was  the  only  peg  upon  which  these  novehsts 
could  hang  the  seedy  garments  of  their  popularity. 
Thank  God !  he  concluded  in  his  mind,  there  were  other 
sides  of  life  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it;  such  a 
one,  for  instance,  as  he  had  chosen.  Maurice  Holland 
belonged  to  that  class  which  produced  these  novelists, 
and  the  man  who  had  confessed  to  him  two  days 
before,  probably  he  was  another  example  of  the  same 

type. 

He  raised  the  book  again  and  opening  it  at  the 
same  place  finished  reading  the  rest  of  the  quota- 
tion— 

"  And  even  with  open  mouth  fix  their  eyes  fast  on 
her;  and  have  all  more  desire  unto  her  than  unto  gold 
and  silver  or  any  goodly  thing  whatsoever.''^ 

Beneath  it  all  was  appended  the  chapter  and  verse 
of  the  book  of  Esdras  from  which  it  had  been  derived. 

**  And  have  all  more  desire  unto  her — than  any 
goodly  thing  whatsoever,"  he  repeated  aloud  to  him- 
self. And  this  was  the  admission  of  a  canonical 
writer  of  one  of  the  books  of  the  Bible!  The  same 
admission  that  he  himself  had  so  fiercely  refuted  in 
the  mouths  of  others. 


68  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

It  was  all  wrong,  absolutely  wrong.  It  tended  to 
attribute  the  vilest  sin  to  natural  and  unavoidable 
sources  and  how  grievous  an  error  that  was.  There 
he  stood  and  he  lived  to  dispute  it,  as  thousands  of 
others  with  his  vocation  were  doing  at  that  very 
moment.  He  almost  threw  the  book  down  on  the 
table,  turning  round  as  Doctor  Giveen  came  into 
the  room. 

He  was  a  stout,  iU-built,  little  man.  His  large  head 
was  a  mass  of  vaguely-coloured  hair  which  threatened 
to  turn  grey.  His  httle  eyes  were  shrewd  and  keen, 
but  it  was  a  shrewdness,  a  keenness  that  never  applied 
itself  to  his  profession.  All  his  alertness  lay  in  the 
paths  of  sport.  He  would  free  a  fish  from  the  hook 
in  the  same  manner  as  he  would  perform  an  operation, 
but  whereas  the  former  was  second  nature,  the  latter 
would  always  remain  an  experiment.  His  religious 
principles  were  as  devout  and  inherent  in  him  as  was 
his  complete  ignorance  of  the  wider  science  of  his  pro- 
fession. Scarcely  ever  having  been  out  of  his  own 
country,  except  to  that  haven  of  the  unfertile 
imagination,  the  Isle  of  Man  and  sometimes  to  Lon- 
don, his  brogue  was  as  broad  as  the  geniality  of  his 
manner.  And,  though  poverty  and  death  were  the 
facts  of  life  with  which  he  had  the  most  frequent 
dealings,  nothing  had  ever  appealed  to  him  from  the 
serious  point  of  view.  There  are  doctors  without 
number  cast  from  his  mould  and  deposited  into  Irish 
country  practices.  When  they  are  students  they 
play  pitch  and  toss  with  pennies  between  lectures, 
and  when  they  are  doctors  they  play  pitch  and  toss 
with  life  between  meals. 


THE   CELIBATE  69 

As  he  had  only  then  been  called  out  of  bed,  and 
his  dressing  effected  within  five  minutes,  the  state 
of  his  attire  was  no  less  untidy  than  that  of  his  hair. 

He  made  no  apology  for  his  appearance  and  came 
forward  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

"  Shure  this  is  not  Monday,  shure  it  isn't?"  he 
asked  in  a  breath. 

Mondays,  Wednesdays  and  Fridays  were  the  days 
upon  which  the  white  placard,  nailed  over  his  dis- 
pensary in  the  village,  announced  that  he  would  be 
in  attendance  to  certify  births,  deaths  and  marriages 
and  dispense  as  many  medicines  as  he  could  from 
the  small  number  of  drugs  at  his  disposal.  From 
eleven  until  four  the  notice  declared  his  presence, 
and  a  vague  idea  that  it  might  be  one  of  those 
days  and  that  Father  Michael  had  called  and  found 
him  wanting  was  disconcerting  his  mind. 

"This  is  Tuesday,  doctor.  One  of  your  off  days. 
That's  why  I  came." 

"  It  is,  of  course.  But  what  can  I  do  for  ye.''  Ye're 
looking  mighty  sick." 

"  I  don't  feel  very  grand.     Can't  sleep." 

The  little  man  opened  his  eyes  professionally  and 
his  lips  shaped  themselves  preparatory  to  whistling. 
He  had  been  in  Rathmore  for  twenty-three  years 
and  had  never  had  to  deal  with  a  case  of  mere  insom- 
nia yet.  For  himself,  no  sooner  was  his  head  laid 
on  the  pillow,  than  the  sound  of  his  breathing  told 
the  unconsciousness  of  his  mind. 

"Can't  sleep,  eh.?"  he  repeated,  and  then  Father 
Michael  described  his  symptoms,  omitting  the  pres- 
ence of  imperative  ideas,  which  was  the  basis  of  all  his 


60  THE   APPLE  OF  EDEN 

restlessness.  He  felt  disinclined  to  speak  of  things 
that  seemed  so  evident  a  proof  of  the  weakness  of 
his  mind. 

Doctor  Giveen  went  through  the  ordinary  formulae 
which  all  medical  practitioners  adopt  to  diagnose  the 
case  before  them,  discovering  to  his  own  satisfaction 
that  the  seat  of  all  the  mischief  lay  in  Father 
Michael's  digestive  organs. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  he,  a  prophetic  tone  in  his 
voice  as  he  stood  up  after  these  preliminaries,  "  do  ye 
smoke  a  lot.  Father?  " 

"  Only  in  the  evening  of  course,  when  I'm  at  home. 
I  smoke  a  fair  good  deal  then,  I  do  of  course." 

"Half  an  ounce  a  day.''"  suggested  the  medical 
man,  caressing  his  hands.  He  smoked  a  full  ounce 
himself,  but  then  the  doctor  is  called  in  to  find  fault, 
not  to  say  that  nothing  is  the  matter.  He  knew  that, 
and  that  the  blame  has  to  be  laid  somewhere. 

"  Not  quite  so  much  as  that,  faith." 

"Ah!"  The  professional  prophetic  tone  was  suffi- 
ciently impressive  for  a  village  practice.  "  There  ye 
are.     Shure  there's  the  worry  on  the  face  of  it." 

"  I'll  give  it  up  then." 

"Exactly.  Ye  will  of  course.  Ye're  the  sensible 
man.  Father.  And  now  the  tea?  D'ye  drink  much 
tea?     Strong,  I  mean." 

"I  do.  Shure,  I  do  of  course.  Every  meal. 
Otherwise  I'm  a  total  abstainer." 

"  There  ye  are  again."  The  little  man  was  delighted 
with  himself.  "Tea  and  tobacco.  They  play  the 
very  deuce  with  the  digestive  system.  They  do  in- 
deed.    Ye'll  have  to  give  up  the  pipe,  Father,  and 


THE   CELIBATE  61 

drink  weak  tea  not  more  than  twice  a  day  and  never 
with  meat,  and  I'll  give  ye  a  little  dose  of  bromide 
that'll  help  ye  over  the  separation  and  make  ye  sleep 
a  little  better." 

"Could  you  let  me  have  the  bottle  before  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  Faith,  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I  don't  keep  it  at  the 
dispensary.  We  never  want  it  here.  But  I'm  send- 
ing over  to  Anesk  to-morrow,  and  ye  shall  have  it  at 
least  by  five  o'clock." 

Father  Michael  reached  for  his  hat.  "  I  shall  have 
to  wait  then,"  he  said  despondently,  and  he  decided 
mentally  that  he  could  not  go  to  bed  at  all  that  night. 

Doctor  Giveen  saw  him  to  the  door,  closing  it  after 
he  had  departed  with  an  uncomplimentary  bang. 

"Faith,  that's  about  as  much  as  I  dared  say  to 
him,"  he  said  aloud  as  he  returned  into  the  parlour. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day,  in  which  Father  Michael's 
time  was  well  occupied  by  making  calls  upon  certain 
parishioners  and  visiting  one  or  two  sick  people, 
amongst  whom  he  was  an  established  favourite,  the 
remembrance  of  the  quotation  which  he  had  seen  in 
the  book  was  continually  recurring  to  him. 

Who  wrote  the  book  of  Esdras.? 

Ezra  the  scribe,  a  Jewish  captive  in  Babylon  in  the 
reign  of  Artaxerxes.  Was  he,  Father  Michael,  a 
priest  of  God,  who  had  learnt  the  teachings  of  Christ 
by  heart,  was  he  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  one  who  had 
cried  in  the  wilderness  of  the  ages  before  Christ? 
As  many  have  done  before  him,  and  as  many  will  do 
to  the  end  of  time,  he  strove  to  laugh  at  the  inspired 
writings  of  an  age  that  was  so  far  behind  his  own  as 


68  THE   APPLE  OF  EDEN 

to  be  out  of  hearing.  Yet  nevertheless  as  he  sat  over 
his  tea  in  his  little  parlour,  the  question  came  up 
again  for  answer. 

Was  the  beauty  of  woman  a  power  in  life,  or  was  it 
the  sensuality  of  the  human  mind  that  made  it  so? 
Was  it  intended  in  the  scheme  of  things  to  have 
its  weight  in  the  balance,  or  had  men  put  it  there 
themselves  to  turn  a  point  in  favour  of  their  own 
pleasures  ? 

When  Mrs.  McGrath,  his  housekeeper,  came  in  with 
a  dish  of  fried  whiting  and  laid  it  on  the  table  before 
him  he  looked  at  her  critically.  But  with  dusty 
brown  hair  plastered  severely  over  each  temple,  thin 
lips  and  small,  expressionless  eyes  she  failed  utterly 
to  supply  him  with  any  solution  to  the  question. 

Then  his  mind  turned  to  wondering  whether  he  had 
ever  seen  any  woman  in  the  whole  course  of  his  exist- 
ence who  could  fulfil  that  description  of — comely  in 
favour  and  beauty.  It  was  practically  impossible 
to  answer,  because  to  begin  with  he  had  never  allowed 
his  eyes  to  rest  upon  one  of  the  other  sex.  He  had 
followed  the  advice  of  Father  Anthony,  had  copied 
the  example  of  St.  Aloysius  to  the  letter  and  he  was 
forced  to  admit  that  he  was  not  in  a  position  to 
answer  the  question  which  he  had  put  to  himself. 

The  few  women  with  whom  he  had  come  into  con- 
tact, unavoidable  contact,  rose  clearly  to  his  mind  by 
reason  of  the  fewness  of  their  numbers ;  and  foremost 
among  them  aU  was  Molly  the  maid-of-all-work  at 
Ballyporeen. 

There  was  an  instance — and  he  caught  hold  of  it 
eagerly  in  the  anxiety  of  his  mind — there  was  an 


THE  CELIBATE  63 

instance  of  a  woman  with  whom  a  man  had  sinned. 
Had  she  been  beautiful?  No!  Had  she  been  in  any, 
way  exceptional  in  appearance  that  a  man  would  have 
been  led  into  temptation  for  her  sake?  Could  any 
man  have  more  desire  for  her  than  for  gold  or  silver 
or  any  goodly  thing  whatsoever?  No!  Ah,  it  had 
been  the  man's  own  sensuality  that  had  led  him  into 
temptation,  the  man's  own  animal  instincts  that  had 
been  the  basis  of  his  desires ;  and  such  he  knew — had 
proved  it  in  himself — could  be  subject  and  slave  to 
the  will  of  a  strong  man. 

He  laid  down  his  cup  of  tea,  crossing  himself  in 
thanksgiving  for  his  meal.  He  felt  a  certain  sense  of 
relief  that  he  had  not  shirked  the  arguing  of  such  a 
matter  with  himself.  When  difficulties  arose  in  the 
mind  in  such  a  fashion  as  this,  it  was  always  better 
to  face  them,  and  he  vowed  that  he  would  never  let 
one  take  a  place  in  his  inner  conscience  again  without 
first  fighting  it  like  a  man.  By  these  means  he  knew 
that  they  could  be  conquered. 

As  he  stood  up  from  the  table,  the  voice  of  Father 
Connelly,  the  parish  priest,  announced  his  intention 
of  coming  in  to  see  his  curate.  Through  the  cur- 
tained window  he  could  see  the  tall,  heavy  figure  bend- 
ing down  to  speak. 

"That  is,  if  ye'll  give  up  yeer  reading,"  he  called 
out  from  the  darkness  in  his  loud,  healthy,  blustering 
voice.  "  I  don't  wish  to  be  after  disturbing  ye,  mind 
ye.» 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  reading  yet,"  Father  Michael  replied 
in  a  much  lower  voice,  and  he  went  outside  into  the 
passage  to  open  the  door  for  his  visitor. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Fathee  Tom  Connelly  was  one  of  those  immense 
raw-boned  men  who  make  of  life  a  business ;  a  busi- 
ness that  is  to  be  carried  on  from  one  day  to  another 
with  regular  routine;  a  business,  no  matter  what  its 
nature  may  be,  that  should  be  attended  to  with  cheer- 
ful optimism,  believing  that  whatever  happens  is  for 
the  ultimate  good  of  that  business  however  contrary 
to  it  the  affair  may  seem  at  the  moment. 

Whatever  profession  or  trade  circumstances  might 
have  chanced  to  place  him  in  he  would  have  accepted 
it  in  precisely  the  same  manner.  Surgeon,  lawyer  or 
priest,  life  would  always  have  had  the  same  outlook 
for  him.  He  treated  his  duties  of  the  church  with  the 
same  regularity  as  he  would  have  attended  the  re- 
quirements of  a  large  medical  practice  in  an  over- 
populated  city. 

The  brisk,  unconcerned  tone  of  his  voice  never 
altered  with  the  seriousness  or  humour  of  various 
occasions.  He  gave  his  advice  and  the  absolution  in 
the  confessional  with  the  same  expression  as  when  he 
ordered  for  slaughter  the  animals  on  the  small  farm 
that  was  attached  to  his  house. 

His  command  of  the  musical  requirements  of  High 
Mass  was  non-existent,  and  had  not  his  earnestness 
entirely  covered  the  multitude  of  his  sins  of  discord 
the  effect  would  have  been  grotesque.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  his  people  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
singing  on  these  occasions,  and  accordingly  his  inhar- 

64 


THE  CELIBATE  66 

monlous  efforts  passed  unnoticed  except  by  the 
organist  who,  holding  the  position  that  she  did,  felt  it 
incumbent  upon  her  to  continue  in  a  mild  protest 
which  was  always  worded  in  the  same  way  and  never 
called  forth  any  agreement  from  her  listeners. 

"  Shure  he  is  a  very  holy  man  is  Father  Connelly, 
but  I  wish  he  could  sing  in  tune." 

Nobody  else  echoed  her  wish.  They  would  not  have 
changed  one  characteristic  in  him  for  worlds. 

To  this  man,  then.  Father  Everett  owed  his  obedi- 
ence. And  though  in  a  great  many  internal  matters 
their  views  were  widely  different,  in  accordance  with 
the  disparity  of  their  natures,  yet  he  looked  up  to 
Father  Connelly  with  that  respect  which  is  bound  to 
come  from  a  man  to  his  senior  whose  ways  are  blame- 
less. That  his  methods  were  somewhat  at  variance 
with  the  younger  man's  conception  of  things  consti- 
tuted no  cause  for  complaint. 

With  a  customary  ease,  as  though  the  whole  house 
belonged  to  him,  the  parish  priest  hung  up  his  tall 
silk  hat  upon  one  of  the  pegs  in  the  hall  as  soon  as 
he  was  admitted  and  strode  on  before  the  curate  into 
the  brightly-lighted  parlour. 

That  same  hat  which  he  had  just  hung  upon  the 
peg  outside  had  been  in  his  possession  for  more  years 
than  he  would  have  cared  to  take  the  trouble  to  count. 
On  occasions  as  rare  as  when  the  wind  would  carry  it 
from  his  head,  or  he  would  consider  the  probable 
necessity  of  getting  a  new  one,  he  would  brush  it 
roughly  with  his  coat  sleeve  preparatory  to  wearing 
it  and  then  forget  about  its  existence  for  the  next 
month  or  so. 


66  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

**  Ye're  very  late  back  from  visiting  to-night,  Father 
Michael,"  he  said  with  his  loud  voice  and  heavy 
brogue,  as  he  seated  himself  recklessly  in  an  unsteady 
arm-chair. 

The  curate  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"I  am,"  he  agreed  quietly.  "I  am  rather  late. 
I'm  just  after  finishing  my  tea,  but  shure,  I  can 
easily  get  some  more  made." 

"  Ah,  shure,  don't  bother.  I've  been  having  it  my- 
self. Cups  of  it.  Tell  me  now,  how  are  ye  keep- 
ing?    Are  ye  sleeping  any  better   these  nights?" 

"  I'm  not,  then,  not  a  bit  better.  Worse,  ye  might 
say.'* 

He  sank  into  the  arm-chair  in  which  he  had 
been  seated  during  his  meal,  and  taking  out  an  ugly 
pocket-handkerchief  he  wiped  his  hands. 

"Well,  did  ye  tell  the  doctor  about  it? " 

"Idid." 

"An'  what  had  the  little  gentlemen  to  say?" 

*' Digestion  all  wrong.  He  told  me  I  was  smoking 
too  much  and  drinking  too  much  tea." 

"Tea!"  Father  Connelly  lifted  up  his  hands  and 
smacked  them  down  on  to  his  knees  with  a  resound- 
ing noise  that  made  Father  Michael  stir  uncomfort- 
ably in  his  chair.  "  Ah,  shure,  what's  the  man  talk- 
ing about?  Smoking!  He  may  be  right  there.  I 
wouldn't  put  a  pipe  in  me  mouth  if  ye  were  to  make 
a  bishop  of  me.  I  would  not.  But  tea!  Yirra, 
the  man's  crazed  with  all  his  new-fangled  notions. 
Tea  wouldn't  hurt  a  baby.  Shure,  what  would  the 
people  do  without  tea?  They  live  on  ut.  Thanks 
be  to  God  it's  cheaper  than  porter,  and,  faith,  none 


THE   CELIBATE  67 

of  'em  seem  to  suffer  with  the  things  ye're  after 
complaining  of." 

"Well,  whether  it's  tea  or  tobacco,  the  doctor  said 
the  result  was  indigestion,  and  he's  given  me  a  bottle 
of  bromide  to  make  me  sleep  better." 

"  Bromide !  Ah,  shure,  that's  the  name  I  was  try- 
ing to  think  of  the  other  day  when  he  told  me  about 
yeer  not  sleeping.  Faith,  that's  the  very  stuff  for  ye, 
shure  it  is.  It'll  make  ye  sleep  like  the  doctor  him- 
self. Mrs,  Rooney  told  me  one  day  he  snores  till 
the  house  is  fit  to  shake.  An'  shure,  I  wouldn't 
be  disbelieving  the  good  woman,  because  Jerry 
Condon  built  that  house,  mind  ye,  thirteen  years 
ago ;  and,  faith,  what  Jerry  builds  is  Jerry-built — it 
is  so." 

So  he  summed  up  the  whole  question,  cheerfully 
optimistic  as  ever,  with  another  violent  slap  on  his 
leg,  seeing  the  preparation  for  which  Father  Michael 
was  not  so  disturbed  as  before. 

For  a  few  moments  the  two  men  sat  in  silence,  the 
parish  priest  surveying  a  large  coloured  print  of 
John  Dillon  that  had  been  extracted  from  the  cover 
of  a  Christmas  journal,  whilst  Father  Michael  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  flame  of  the  lamp  which  shot  up 
suddenly  at  intervals  into  the  higher  parts  of  the 
chimney.  As  is  characteristic  of  men  with  intro- 
spective minds,  the  interruption  to  his  thoughts  which 
the  advent  of  Father  Connelly  had  made  was  only 
temporary  and  no  sooner  was  there  a  pause  in  their 
conversation  than  he  reverted  to  the  subject  that  he 
had  been  considering.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him 
to  put  the  question  vaguely  to  his  visitor. 


€S  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

**  Tell  me,"  he  said  seriously,  "  I  heard  a  man  say- 
ing the  other  day  that  the  colour  of  a  woman's  hair 
had  a  great  effect  upon  him.  Did  ye  ever  hear  such 
nonsense  in  all  yer  life?" 

Father  Connelly  fitted  all  his  fingers  accurately,  one 
on  the  top  of  the  other,  and  blinked  at  the  wall  in 
front  of  him. 

"Well  now,"  he  remarked  without  the  slightest  in- 
tention of  being  sententious,  "it  depends  greatly  on 
the  man  as  to  how  much  nonsense  there  was  and  how 
much  sense.  My  brother  James,  the  same  that  lives 
down  at  Carrigrisheen,  maybe  ye've  never  heard  of 
him?  Well,  never  mind,  he  was  a  queer  lad,  anyhow. 
But  he  told  me  he  was  attracted  first  to  the  woman 
who's  now  his  wife  because  she  had  such  a  large 
mouth.  Well,  ye  might  be  saying  that  ye  never  heard 
such  nonsense  as  that  in  all  yeer  life,  but  he  meant  it. 
Now  there's  yeer  housekeeper,  Mrs.  McGrath  here," 
he  made  a  considerable  effort  to  lower  his  voice,  and 
Father  Michael  looked  apprehensively  towards  the 
door  to  see  that  it  was  closed.  "  Ye'd  not  be  calling 
her  a  pretty  woman,  would  ye?  But  she's  got  a 
larger  mouth  than  my  sister-in-law,  and  maybe  if 
James  had  seen  her  first  she'd  a'  been  Mrs.  Connelly 
by  this  time.  Ye  see,"  he  concluded,  with  a  shake  of 
his  head,  "ye  can't  tell  how  much  nonsense  there  is 
in  this  world,  until  ye've  discovered  how  many  fools 
there  are.  Now  I've  been  on  this  planet  a  good 
thirty  years  longer  than  ye  have.  Father  Michael, 
and,  from  what  I've  of  seen  it,  the  old  needle  in  the 
bundle  of  hay  is  easier  to  find  than  yer  wise  man,  he 
is  so.     But,  mind  ye,  that's  only  my  experience,  an'. 


THE   CELIBATE  69 

let  alone  for  the  Retreat,  I  haven't  been  outside  of 
Rathmore  these  five  years." 

Father  Michael  took  up  a  spoon  from  the  table  and 
began  in  a  preoccupied  way  to  rake  up  the  crumbs 
that  were  scattered  about  his  plate. 

"  Well,  to  my  mind,"  he  said,  when  he  had  gathered 
them  all  together  in  one  little  heap,  '*  to  my  mind  the 
idea  of  the  whole  thing  is  ridiculous.  I  don't  believe 
that  the  Almighty  God  ever  made  mankind  of  such 
weak  stuff  as  that,  as  to  be  influenced  by  the  smallest 
objects  which  he  must  meet  with  every  day." 

"  The  question  is,  does  he  meet  them  every  day  ?  " 
Father  Connelly  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  yawned 
loudly. 

"It  took  me  brother  James  the  best  part  of  five 
years  before  he  found  a  woman  with  as  large  a  mouth 
as  Mary  Hanrahan,  and  that  was  the  young  lady  he 
made  his  wife.  Though  she  wasn't  young,  mind  ye, 
she  thought  she  was,  and  she  persuaded  James  into 
that  way  of  thinking  too." 

Father  Michael  smiled. 

"There  may  be  something  in  that,"  he  agreed 
reluctantly,  "but  the  world,  so  they  say,  is  a  small 
place,  and  maybe  yer  brother  James  was  fastidious." 

Father  Connelly  broke  into  a  loud  laugh  that  seemed 
to  shake  all  the  smaller  objects  in  the  room. 

"That's  true  for  ye,"  said  he,  mixing  his  words 
with  his  laughter.  "James  lost  most  of  the  oppor- 
tunities that  ever  came  under  his  nose  by  looking  for 
them." 

"  But,  seriously  now,  you'd  not  be  saying  there  was 
nonsense  in  what  that  man  said.'*" 


70  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

"Show  me  the  man  and  I'll  tell  ye.  Shure  it  all 
depends  on  that.  Now  if  I  were  to  express  such  a 
sentiment  as  that,  faith,  it  'ud  be  the  shurest  nonsense 
ye  ever  listened  to.  It  would  so.  D'ye  follow  me?" 
"I  suppose  I  do.  You  don't  think  that  the 
essentials  of  men  are  invariably  the  same?  " 

A  smile  hovered  round  the  corners  of  Father  Con- 
nelly's broad  mouth. 

"Put  like  the  young  student  that  ye  are,"  he  said 
humorously.  "That's  just  about  what  I'm  afther 
trying  to  say,  the  only  difference  being  that  ye  made 
a  science  of  ut.  And  now  that's  precisely  where 
ye're  wrong  and  I'm  right." 

The  curate  looked  across  at  him  for  an  explanation 
and  in  time  it  was  given  him. 

*'Life  is  not  a  science,"  the  parish  priest  went  on, 
unaware  that  he  was  expressing  aU  the  wisdom  of  his 
own  simplicity,  "life  is  a  business,  life  is  a  fact." 

**  And  what  is  science  but  a  fact  ?  " 

*'  If  I  was  fond  of  tobacco,"  said  Father  Connelly 
quietly,  "  I'd  light  me  pipe  and  tell  ye  a  lot  of  things. 
The  sort  of  things  that  occur  to  ye  when  ye've  picked 
yerself  out  of  the  mud  where  ye've  fallen,  and  the  sort 
of  things  that  ye  don't  talk  about  till  ye've  brushed 
yeer  clothes  and  made  yerself  look  a  little  less  Kke  a 
tinker.  Mind  ye,  it's  no  good  talking  about  them 
till  ye've  brushed  yeer  clothes  because  ye  won't  find 
any  one  to  listen.  Ye're  after  saying  that  science 
is  a  fact.  Would  ye  conthradict  me  now.  Father 
Michael,  if  I  said  to  ye  that  science  was  a  hunting 
after  facts,  and  that  once  they're  found  they  go  into 
the  laws  of  life  and  the  matter  becomes  no  longer  a 


THE   CELIBATE  71 

science?  Would  ye  feel  inclined  to  conthradict  me 
now  if  I  said  that  ?  Ye're  the  most  promising  curate 
I've  had  under  me  since  the  bishop  presented  me  with 
this  parish  of  Rathmore,  but  faith,  ye've  got  one 
egre-egious  fault." 

There  was  a  sensitive  expression  of  concerA  on 
Father  Michael's  face  as  he  looked  quickly  at  the 
parish  priest. 

" I'm  sorry,"  he  said.     "  What  is  it.?  " 

**  Ye're  very  young." 

The  twinkle  in  Father  Connelly's  eyes  denoted  his 
anticipation  that  his  curate  would  smile  at  the 
remark,  certainly  that  he  would  not  take  it  with  any 
degree  of  seriousness. 

In  this  expectation  he  was  utterly  mistaken.  When 
a  young  man,  however  good-naturedly.  Is  accused  of 
the  fault  of  his  youth,  he  proves  the  justice  of  the 
accusation  by  being  mortally  offended.  Father 
Michael  certainly  was  twenty-six,  but  in  many  re- 
spects, as  may  already  have  been  seen,  he  exhibited  the 
immaturity  of  a  child. 

"That's  the  first  time  I've  heard  of  youth  being 
described  as  a  fault,"  he  said,  with  that  characteristic 
twitching  of  his  sensitive  upper  lip. 

"  Ye'U  be  accusing  others  of  it  yerself  when  ye 
grow  older,"  the  parish  priest  retorted,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Now  just  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments.  I'm  not 
given  to  talking  as  a  rule,  but  when  I  do,  faith,  I 
mean  ut.  Ye're  one  of  the  new  school.  Ye've  got 
all  the  learning  that's  inside  of  ye  from  a  bundle  of 
philosophical  treatises  that  ye  hug  and  bend  over 
like  an  old  grandmother  with  a  cradle.     Mind  ye, 


•yg  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

I'm  not  blaming  ye.  That's  the  way  they  teach  at 
Maynooth  now.  But  Glory  be  to  God!  Where's 
the  use  of  robbing  yerself  of  sleep  to  master  the 
ethics  of  theology  when  ye  can't  see  the  first  sign  of 
rot  coming  on  the  com  that  God  makes  to  grow 
under  yeer  very  feet  ?  " 

As  far  as  it  was  physically  possible,  he  said  almost 
all  this  in  one  breath.  The  fire  of  oratory  that  is 
burning  in  the  heart  of  every  Irishmen  had  been 
caught  up  into  a  flame  of  eloquence  by  the  ardour 
of  his  feelings.  He  was  not  far-sighted  enough  to 
realize  that  all  he  was  saying  was  far  more  a  cure 
for  the  ills  that  Father  Michael  had  complained  of  to 
Doctor  Giveen  than  the  medicinal  dose  of  bromide  or 
any  sedative  that  science  could  prescribe. 

It  so  happened  that  while  both  men  had  been  called 
into  the  same  channel  of  life  yet  their  natures 
were  as  far  apart  as  are  the  imaginary  poles  of  our 
geographical  structure  of  the  world.  And  it  was 
quite  unconsciously  that  Father  Connelly  was  a  far 
more  powerful  reagent  than  the  science  of  medicine 
could  ever  compound. 

Seeing  that  Father  Michael  had  apparently  nothing 
further  to  say  he  started  again  with  the  renewed 
energy  which  his  thoughts  in  the  pause  had  given 
him. 

"There's  some  gentleman — maybe  ye'd  know  what 
he  calls  himself — who's  said  in  print  that  there  are 
books  in  the  running  brooks.  Well,  shure,  I  dunno 
what  induced  him  to  say  such  a  silly  thing  as  that. 
I've  never  seen  anything  worth  learning  meself  in 
that  stream  that  runs  through  the  bottom  of  the 


THE   CELIBATE  73 

woods  near  my  place  at  Ballysheen.  Mind  ye,  I  may 
be  misjudging  the  man,  because  if  he'd  said  a  crop 
of  potatoes  I'd  a'  been  with  him  there.  I  would 
indeed.  I've  seen  more  human  nature  in  one  field  of 
spuds  than  ye'd  find  in  half  the  philosophical  books 
in  the  library  at  Maynooth,  an'  faith,  I  know  what 
I'm  saying  because  I  had  to  read  through  more  than 
that  before  they  let  me  take  me  final  orders." 

"You  mean  you  think  I  read  too  much,"  Father 
Michael  interrupted. 

The  parish  priest  held  up  his  hands  In  childish 
delight. 

"Wisha,  man!  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  I'd 
have  to  be  talking  nicely  to  ye  like  this  for  the  next 
fortnight  before  ye'd  understand  that  that  was  what 
I  was  driving  at." 

*'But  some  one  must  read.  We  can't  all  grow 
potatoes." 

"Faith,  that's  true  for  ye — that's  true  for  ye. 
Some  of  us  must  read,  but  which  of  us  ?  Some  of  us 
must  grow  potatoes,  but  which  of  us.''  Now  d'ye 
mind  this.  Father  Michael,  because  when  I  was  first 
ordained  I  learnt  ut.  I  didn't  read  ut,  mind  ye. 
Some  of  us  must  read,  and  shure,  they're  the  ones  that 
have  got  to  teach  others." 

"And  what  is  the  priesthood  for  but  to  teach?" 
exclaimed  the  astonished  curate. 

"  Teach !  Wisha !  Teach ! "  he  held  up  his  hands 
to  his  eyes  as  though  physically  he  was  endeavouring 
to  shut  the  thought  out  of  his  mind.  "  Shure,  tell 
me  now,  what  is  there  left  to  teach  but  what  the 
mother  teaches  to  her  child,  and  the  father  to  his  son ; 


74  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

but  what  the  National  School  teaches  to  the  boy 
and  girl,  and  the  professor  to  the  student,  an'.  Glory 
be  to  God,  ye  don't  call  yerself  a  school-master  do 
ye?  Shure  ye  do  not  of  course.  When  all  these 
pass  out  of  their  tutors'  hands,  what  is  there  left 
to  teach  'em,  will  ye  tell  me  that?  That  it's  wrong 
to  sin?  No,  faith  they  know  that  well  enough. 
That  they're  bom  with  the  strain  of  original  sin? 
Shure  they're  only  too  glad  to  put  it  all  on  to  that 
before  ye've  time  to  tell  'em  of  ut.  That  there's 
mercy  and  forgiveness  through  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ?"  He  bowed  his  head  with  sudden  reverence. 
*'No,  shure  their  mothers  whisper  that  into  their 
ears  before  their  eyes  are  open." 
"  Then  what  is  the  duty  of  the  priesthood  ?  " 
"To  lead,  Father  Michael,  to  lead — and,  in  the 
name  o'  God,  how  can  ye  do  that  when  ye  don't  know 
the  way  yerself?  How  can  ye  show  a  man  the  way 
in  a  far  country,  when  ye've  only  been  studying  a 
map  of  the  route  yerself?  The  way  to  everlasting 
salvation  doesn't  lie  through  the  pages  of  IVIivart's 
philosophy;  faith,  there'd  be  mighty  few  people  to 
get  there  if  it  did.  No,  man ;  it's  a  twisted,  rambling 
path,  that  runs  through  all  the  crops  ye  can  think  of, 
and,  mind  ye,  there  are  a  good  many  more  fruits  in 
the  earth  than  spuds.  There  are  so.  Shure  ye  may 
read  and  read  till  ye're  little  more  than  an  encylopedia 
of  knowledge,  and,  mind  ye,  that'll  take  ye  the  rest  of 
yeer  life — but  at  the  end  o'  that  time  ye  won't  be 
able  to  tell  me  why  one  man  has  a  fancy  for  a  woman 
with  a  lavTge  mouth,  and  another  takes  to  a  girl 
because  of  the  colour  of  her  hair.     I  may  be  all 


THE   CELIBATE  75 

wrong,  mind  ye,  but  that's  my  way  of  seeing  ut," 
and  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  shook  himself. 

This  unexpected  return  to  the  question  of  sex  was 
the  only  spark  needed  to  feed  the  fuel  of  Father 
Michael's  enthusiasm  and  set  it  into  sudden  flame. 
Had  he  not  argued  it  all  out  to  himself  that  very 
afternoon  after  his  interview  with  the  doctor?  He 
had  faced  it  like  a  man,  and  he  felt  that  it  would 
only  be  weak,  now  when  he  had  an  opponent,  to  let  it" 
be  thrown  in  his  face  again  without  an  effort  to 
defend  his  own  opinions.  Moreover,  when  a  man  is 
convinced,  he  is  bound  to  be  enthusiastic  according 
to  his  hghts. 

"  Shure  I  can  tell  you  that  now,"  he  said,  rising  up 
quickly  from  his  chair  and  confronting  the  parish 
priest  with  the  light  of  conviction  in  his  eyes.  "I 
can  tell  you  that  without  any  of  the  reading  you  think 
necessary  to  the  most  childish  information." 

Father  Connelly  rubbed  his  hands  together  with 
appreciation. 

"Well,"  said  he  affably,  "I'm  willing  to  learn. 
What  is  ut  ?  What  is  ut  that  makes  men  do  these 
things  ?  " 

"  Because  there's  a  kink  in  their  natures.  Because 
they've  let  their  senses  run  ahead  of  their  reason. 
Because  they  don't  look  any  further  into  life  than  the 
mere  visible  things  that  strike  the  eye." 

The  parish  priest  looked  complacently  and  with  all 
good-natured  benevolence  at  his  curate.  Then  he 
smiled. 

"  Tell  me,  Father  Michael,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  extraordinarily  quiet  for  him,  "  tell  me  now,  is  it 


76  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

because  there's  a  kink  in  yeer  nature,  because  yeer 
senses  have  -run  ahead  of  yeer  reason,  that  ye  get  so 
excited  about  this  little  subject  that  we're  after  talk- 
ing about?" 

*'  I  suppose  it's  my  nature  to  get  excited  at  times," 
the  curate  said,  all  his  enthusiasm  damped  by  the 
priest's  tone  of  voice.     "  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Ah ! "  Father  Connelly  brought  his  hands  together 
with  a  resounding  noise.  "Ye  can't  help  it!  It's 
in  yer  nature !  God  bless  us,  Father  Michael,  an'  is 
yeer  nature  the  only  one  in  this  world,  or  if  it  is  d'ye 
think  ye've  got  to  the  bottom  of  ut  in  twenty-six 
years?" 


CHAPTER     VII 

One  morning,  about  three  weeks  after  his  conver- 
sation with  Father  Connelly,  having  returned  from 
the  convent  where  he  had  celebrated  Mass,  Father 
IVIichael  found  a  letter  lying  on  his  plate  on  the  break- 
fast-table. The  circumstance  in  itself  was  suffi- 
ciently unusual  to  quicken  his  steps  across  the  room, 
but  when  he  saw  that  the  envelope  bore  a  French 
stamp,  all  eagerness  died  out  of  his  anticipation  since 
he  knew  the  writer. 

It  was  from  his  sister  Nora  who,  having  become  a 
nun,  had  after  her  novitiate  in  Ireland  been  ordered 
to  a  branch  station  in  a  little  village  not  far  outside 
Paris. 

They  had  never  been  close  companions  in  their 
childhood,  but  the  vocation  which  had  fallen  upon 
both  of  them  had  seemed  to  act  as  a  bond  of  imion  ; 
and,  though  they  had  not  met  for  some  five  years  or 
more,  a  desultory  correspondence  was  still  kept  up 
between  them. 

But  with  the  greatest  stretch  of  the  imagination  he 
knew  it  was  impossible  for  the  letter  of  a  nun  to  be 
interesting,  so  calling  to  Mrs.  McGrath  he  sat  down 
in  his  accustomed  place,  crossing  himself  preparatory 
to  the  meal  of  which  he  was  going  to  partake.  He 
did  not  even  offer  to  take  the  letter  from  his  plate. 

But  at  length  when  his  breakfast  had  been  brought 
in  to  him,  when  Mrs.  McGrath  had  lingered  in  vain  to 
see  him  break  open  the  envelope,  he  tore  the  flap 

77 


78  THE   APPLE  OF  EDEN 

asunder  with  his  fingers  and  began  to  read  the 
contents. 

A's  he  had  expected,  it  differed  in  very  few  details 
from  all  the  rest  that  he  had  ever  received  from  her. 
But,  as  he  reached  the  last  page,  the  tolerant  expres- 
sion on  his  face  changed  to  one  of  greater  interest. 

*'When  you  get  your  next  holidays,"  he  read, 
*'  could  you  not  come  over  here  to  Duresne  instead  of 
going  home?  There  is  very  good  pension,  boarding- 
house,  you  know,  in  the  village,  the  Rev.  Mother 
knows  the  lady  who  keeps  it  very  well,  and  it  would 
not  be  expensive,  about  twenty-five  shillings  a  week. 
You  could  stay  there  for  a  fortnight  or  more  if  you 
wished  to  and  I  should  so  much  like  to  see  you,  let  me 
hear  soon  if  you  wiU  do  this,  all  the  sisters  here  are 
longing  to  meet  you,  I  have  told  them  quite  a  lot 
about  you." 

So  with  a  few  family  remarks  the  letter  ended,  pos- 
sessing about  three  full-stops  in  its  whole  con- 
struction. 

He  smiled  as  he  laid  it  down.  The  last  sentence 
was  so  like  his  sister,  so  like  all  nuns,  for  that  matter, 
whose  discrimination  is  utterly  dependent  upon  the 
novelty  of  seeing  any  one  at  all.  It  meant  nothing. 
But  to  go  abroad,  that  was  quite  a  diff^erent  affair. 
He  had  never  been  outside  his  own  country.  It  was 
not  that  he  felt  he  would  learn  or  gain  anything  by 
going,  but  when  occasionally  he  met  with  others  who 
had  travelled,  even  as  far  as  England,  he  felt  a  little 
behind  the  times,  a  httle  inexperienced,  at  least  so  it 
seemed  he  must  appear  in  their  eyes. 

And  this  suggestion  of  his  sister's — it  made  matters 


THE  CELIBATE  7d 

easy.  The  thought  of  where  he  should  stay  and  how 
he  would  get  on  in  a  strange  land  amongst  strange 
people  had  always  on  previous  occasions  made  him 
shift  the  thought  of  travelling  on  to  the  future.  So 
it  would  indefinitely  have  been  shifted  had  not  this 
letter  from  his  sister  altered  the  point  of  view. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  meal  the  idea  had 
grown  into  a  determination  dependent  upon  the  deci- 
sion of  Father  Connelly.  In  matters  that  dealt  with 
the  commonplace  things  of  life  he  looked  to  the  parish 
priest  as  a  child  does  to  its  father. 

Folding  up  the  letter  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket 
he  took  liis  hat  from  its  peg  in  the  hall. 

"  Mrs.  McGrath,"  he  called  out  in  lively  spirits,  "  if 
any  one's  after  wanting  me  urgently  I've  gone  to 
Father  Connelly's."  . 

Then  he  started  for  Ballysheen,  a  district  some  two 
miles  east  of  Rathmore,  where  the  parish  priest  lived 
and  had  his  being. 

There,  on  the  little  farm  that  surrounded  his  house, 
Father  Connelly  was  to  be  found  every  morning  when 
his  parochial  duties  did  not  call  him  into  the  village. 
There  amongst  his  cattle  and  his  crops  he  lived  the 
life  of  his  philosophy,  and  preached  it  from  the  altar 
steps  every  Sunday  morning.  Unkempt  and  careless 
of  what  his  neighbours  thought  of  him,  he  was  per- 
fectly happy  and  content.  It  was  as  though,  on 
those  few  acres  of  land,  he  sowed  the  seeds  of 
optimism  and  reaped  the  fruit  of  contentment  that 
grew  and  multiphed  a  thousand-fold. 

Having  inquired  whether  he  had  come  into  Rath- 
more  that  morning  Father  Michael  set  out  across  the 


80  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

**  mile  of  warm,  sea-scented  "  strand  which  shortened 
the  way  to  Ballysheen  by  some  ten  minutes'  walk. 

It  was  a  cloudless  day  in  the  midst  of  June.  The 
heat  of  the  coming  summer  was  just  freshened  by  the 
last  cool  breath  of  the  departing  spring.  To  the 
right  of  him  the  sea  at  low  tide  lay  motionless  as 
though  exhausted,  utterly  incapable  of  ever  lashing 
itself  again  into  the  fury  of  a  storm.  The  sand, 
where  the  sea  just  washed  it  with  its  fragile  waves, 
catching  a  dim  reflection  of  the  blue  sky  above,  shone 
like  the  surface  of  a  metal  that  has  just  been  cut. 
Around  him  as  he  walked — his  thick-soled  boots 
leaving  their  impressions  in  company  with  those  of 
many  others  who  had  passed  that  way — a  stray  sea- 
gull would  sweep  with  outstretched  wings  which  in 
another  moment  would  bear  it  out  to  sea. 

To  his  left  stretched  the  low,  green  land,  intersected 
by  the  dark  hedgerows  and  grey  stone  walls  dividing 
the  pasture  fields  from  those  that  were  freshly 
ploughed.  And  far  away  on  the  horizon,  rising  like 
misting  clouds  into  the  blue  air,  the  Galtee  Mountains 
stood  up  against  the  background. 

In  a  field  near  at  hand  a  ploughman  drove  his  way 
up  and  down  the  red-brown  furrows,  and  in  his  wake, 
like  the  foam  of  some  sea-going  vessel,  a  flock  of  sea- 
birds  hung  upon  his  steps.  Every  now  and  again 
as  they  rose  from  the  land  twisting  in  their  flight, 
their  white  bodies  met  the  light  of  the  fierce  sun,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  wind  had  caught  up  thousands  of 
little  pieces  of  paper  and  were  tossing  them  about  at 
its  will. 

Father  Michael  watched  the  man  with  a   casual 


THE   CELIBATE  81 

interest,  so  long  as  he  came  within  the  range  of  his 
gaze.  Was  he,  he  wondered — ^Father  Connelly's 
words  recurring  to  him — was  he  a  student  of  that 
human  nature  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  yielding 
earth?  What  more  of  life  did  that  ploughman  learn 
from  the  fecundity  of  the  fields,  than  he,  Father 
Michael  had  strained  from  the  leaves  of  philoso- 
phy? Obviously  not  as  much — undoubtedly  not  as 
much. 

He  was  confident  that,  were  he  to  put  the  question 
to  that  labourer  of  the  fields  which  Father  Connelly 
had  put  to  him,  he  would  find  that  the  solution  would 
be  wanting — hopelessly  wanting.  As  he  thought  of 
it,  the  idea  found  a  sudden  attraction  for  him,  and  he 
paused  in  his  walk.  Then,  an  impulsive  determina- 
tion taking  hold  of  his  mind,  he  crossed  the  strand, 
climbed  up  the  sandhill  that  stretched  along  by  the 
land  offering  protection  from  the  sea,  and  made  his 
way  to  the  field  where  the  man  and  his  two  patient 
horses  were  at  work. 

As  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  furrow  nearest  to 
Father  Michael  the  ploughman  took  his  hands  from 
the  handles  and  raised  his  hat. 

A  real  son  of  the  soil  he  was,  not  more  than  thirty 
years  of  age,  with  weatherbeaten  face  and  unshaven 
cheeks.  Just  such  a  man  as  Patsy,  the  farm-hand  at 
Ballyporeen  had  been. 

"  Marnin',  Father,"  he  said  in  a  serious  tone. 

The  priest  answered  the  salutation  good-naturedly. 
Then  they  fell  into  conversation.  Father  Michael 
leading  it  into  the  topic  of  the  coming  harvest.  This 
he  did  out  of  consideration  for  the  man's  limited 


$ft  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

knowledge  of  other  matters,  though  he  knew 
strangely  little  about  it  himself. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  he  said,  when  they  had  drifted  into 
the  subject  of  a  marriage  which  one  of  the  village 
men  had  contracted  with  an  unknown  tinker  woman  at 
the  last  Shrovetide,  "  tell  me  now,  what  on  earth  per- 
suaded Shaun  to  take  over  the  responsibility  of  that 
woman  with  her  two  children  by  some  former  husband, 
knowing  nothing  whatsoever  about  her  past  life  ?  " 

The  ploughman  scratched  his  head  and  turned  the 
quid  of  tobacco  in  his  mouth. 

"  Shure  I  dunno.  Father.  Faith,  I  suppose  a  wife 
wid  two  children  is  better  than  none  at  all  when  ye're 
after  wantin'  to  get  married.  Yirra,  I'd  sooner  take 
wan  wid  half-a-dozen  of  the  youngsters  meself ,  than 
be  rowHn'  in  a  carriage  wid  an  'ooman  I  didn't  loike." 

Father  Michael  turned  with  the  half -formed  inten- 
tion of  continuing  his  way  to  Ballysheen.  The  man's 
philosophy  was  beyond  him.  In  its  crude  expression 
he  was  forced  to  admit  that  it  certainly  coincided 
with  the  same  view  that  Father  Connelly  had  upheld. 
But,  for  all  that,  it  was  beyond  him. 

For  a  moment  or  so  he  looked  at  the  man,  and  then 
his  eyes  wandered  up  and  down  the  soft,  brown 
valleys  of  earth  that  stretched  on  before  the  two 
patient  animals  waiting  for  the  voice  of  their  driver 
to  command  them  back  to  their  labour.  It  was  as 
though  he  thought  to  find  there  the  germ  of  the  man's 
philosophy,  as  he  would  the  seed  that  would  soon  be 
cast  there  by  the  sower. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off  to  Ballysheen,"  he  remarked 
at  length,  when  he  felt  that  the  pause  was  becoming 


THE   CELIBATE  83 

irksome,  and  turning  out  of  the  field  on  to  a  road 
which  would  bring  him  eventually  to  his  destination, 
he  continued  on  his  journey  to  Father  Connelly. 

With  his  tall,  silk  hat  balanced  uncomfortably  on 
his  head,  though  with  no  apparent  heed  of  its  exist- 
ence, Father  Connelly  was  found  engrossed  in  the 
management  of  his  farm.  He  was  giving  his  orders, 
arranging  this  matter  and.  that  with  as  little  tone  of 
sentiment  in  his  voice  as  could  be  distinguished  in  the 
clamorous  crows  that  cried  in  the  trees  above  his 
head. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  Father  Michael  he  hastened 
towards  him  with  lengthy  strides. 

"  Ah,  come  in,  come  in,"  he  called  out  to  the  curate 
who  was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  large  white 
iron  gate  that  opened  on  to  the  road.  "  Faith,  ye're 
welcome.  Come  in,"  and  he  closed  the  gate  carefully 
after  his  visitor  had  entered. 

"Come  up  to  the  house,  will  ye.''  I've  just  been 
seeing  around  things  this  morning.  There's  nothing 
wrong  in  the  village,  is  there.?  Faith,  one  of  me 
young  heifers  is  just  afther  perishing  to-day,  an' 
shure  I  scarcely  knows  what  I'm  doing.  There's 
nothing  wrong,  is  there.'"' 

"Nothing — nothing  at  all.  I  came  to  see  you 
about  a  letter  I  got  this  morning.     That's  all." 

"Indeed — indeed.?  Shure  then  ye'll  stay  an'  have 
something  to  eat.  Ah,  man,  shure  what's  the  good  of 
saying  no,  when  the  stuff's  waiting  there  for  ye  to  eat 
ut,"  and  notwithstanding  all  his  refusals  the  good 
man  bore  Father  Michael  with  him  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

Called  after  the  surrounding  locality  Ballysheen  was 
very  typical  of  many  of  the  large  country  houses 
that  are  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the  south  of  Ire- 
land. They  seem  to  stand  as  monuments  of  a  past 
and  faded  opulence  which  has  lasted  for  a  few 
years  and  then  crumbled  into  dust  or  been  carried 
away  into  another  country.  The  rooms  in  Father 
Connelly's  house  were  vast  chambers  with  high 
ceilings. 

The  fittings,  such  as  the  curtain  rods  and  blinds, 
which  he,  as  the  incoming  tenant,  had  purchased  some 
thirteen  years  before,  suggested  a  heavy  grandeur 
with  their  gilded  traceries  and  faded  material.  In  no 
room  in  the  house  could  an  air  of  quiet  comfort  be 
found,  and,  furnished  with  the  old-fashioned,  unin- 
viting furniture  which  the  parish  priest  had  brought 
with  him  when  he  came  to  Rathmore,  the  entire 
habitation  had  that  cold,  cheerless  appearance  which 
suggests  the  atmosphere  of  rainy  nights  and  terrify- 
ing storms. 

Only  when  Father  Connelly  entered  the  wide  hall, 
or  strode  about  the  capacious  rooms,  did  it  seem 
reasonable,  natural  for  one  man  and  a  housekeeper 
to  be  the  only  occupants  of  so  extensive  a  building. 
There  must  at  least  have  been  half-a-dozen  rooms 
that  were  never  occupied  in  the  great,  old  weather- 
slated  house  which  over  its  surrounding  belt  of  trees 

84 


THE   CELIBATE  86 

looked  out  across  the  impenetrable  colours  of  the 
trackless  sea. 

But  his  blatant,  healthy  voice  very  rarely  pitched 
on  any  but  its  loudest  key,  his  tall,  gaunt  body  and 
the  length  of  every  step  he  took  seemed  to  justify  his 
surroundings  as  the  characteristics  of  but  few  other 
men  could  possibly  have  done. 

"Well  now,"  said  he  throwing  himself  into  one  of 
the  large  arm-chairs  that  seemed  empty  indeed  with- 
out the  bulk  of  his  proportions  to  fill  it.  '*  Well  now, 
what  might  the  letter  be  about  at  all  ?  " 

Father  Michael  began  to  draw  it  from  his  pocket. 

"  My  sister  Nora,  she  that's  a  nun  in  France.  She 
wants  me  to  take  my  holidays  over  there  in  Duresne. 
It's  a  little  village  about  twenty  or  thirty  miles  out- 
side Paris.  I  came  over  to  ask  you  what  you  thought 
about  it." 

Father  Connelly  locked  his  hands  together  in  con- 
sideration. 

**Tell  me,  are  ye  sleeping  better  at  all  now?" 

**I  am  then,  but  not  quite  as  well  as  I  was.  The 
effect  of  the  bromide  seems  to  be  beginning  to 
go  off." 

"Faith,  that's  the  way  with  those  medical  concoc- 
tions. They  just  work  long  enough  to  give  ye  con- 
fidence in  the  doctor,  and  then  they  make  ye  in  such 
a  state  that  ye  can't  do  without  him.  I  dunno,  mind 
ye,  but  nature  seems  to  me  to  be  the  only  physician 
God  gave  for  a  man." 

*'I  thought  you  would  have  told  me  to  take  a 
bromide,  only  you  were  after  forgetting  the 
name." 


86  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

"I  would?  Shure  I  would  not.  I'd  have  told  that 
that's  what  a  doctor  would  have  given  ye.  Now  ye 
can  believe  it  or  not,  as  ye  like,  Father  Michael,  but 
I  was  forty  years  old  before  I  found  the  doctor  that 
suited  me  and  I  never  go  to  any  other." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Faith,  I  don't  want  to  bring  scandal  on  meself, 
but  it's  a  she.  Nature!  An  old  woman  here  in 
Rathmore  once  said  to  me:  *Docthors!  Shure 
what  are  docthors  in  the  name  of  God?'  She  spoke 
with  a  brogue  as  broad  as  that,  mind  ye,  I'm  only 
imitating  her." 

Father  Michael  smiled. 

"  *  What  are  docthors  ? '  said  she,  *  yirra,  I'd  sooner 
sleep  wid  me  head  out  o'  the  windey  than  call  in  a 
docthor  for  a  cold.  I  would,  so.'  And,  mind  ye, 
Father  Michael,  when  I  got  home  I  thought  about  ut, 
an'  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  good  deal  more 
in  what  she  said  than  she  ever  imagined.  I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  against  Dr.  Giveen,  mind  ye. 
I  firmly  believe  that  he's  got  a  better  eye  wid  a  shot- 
gun than  any  one  in  the  village;  an'  they  say  I  can 
kill  a  crow  when  I  see  ut.  But  shure,  after  ye've  been 
to  him  for  a  few  months  it  isn't  curing  ye  he'll  be  but 
killing  ye,  an',  what's  more,  he  won't  see  the  necessity 
for  confessing  it.     He  will  not." 

It  was  not  very  frequently  that  Father  Michael 
smiled,  but  Father  Connelly,  more  almost  than  any 
one,  possessed  the  power  to  compel  him. 

*'  Then  what  is  your  prescription  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
lighter  spirit  than  he  had  shown  before.  *'  Shure, 
what  am  I  to  do  with  myself?" 


THE   CELIBATE  87 

The  parish  priest  leant  forward  with  a  twinlding  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Give  up  yer  books,"  he  said  straightly,  "  for  a 
year  or  so.  Let  philosophy  and  theology  take  care 
o'  thimselves  and  nature  take  care  o'  ye.  Be  up,  an' 
about,  an'  out  in  the  world.  Get  fresh  air.  Take 
exercise,  faith,  if  ye  have  to  steal  it.  Be  a  man,  and 
live  like  a  man.  Ye  were  born  to  live  by  the  sweat 
of  your  brow,  not  by  thieving  your  sleep  and  blind- 
ing your  eyesight.  Well,  be  human  and  let  ye'self 
sweat.  Wisha,  now.  Father  Michael,  tell  me,  when 
a  man  comes  and  confesses  to  ye  on  a  Saturday  even- 
ing, is  ut  philosophy  he's  wanting.''  It  is  not!  Is 
philosophy  the  sort  of  thing  to  give  a  man  on  a 
Saturday  night,  when  there's  only  twelve  hours  be- 
tween him  and  Holy  Communion  for  him  to  swallow 
it  in  ?     'Tis  not,  shure  it's  not ! " 

He  rose  with  a  good-natured  laugh,  and  walked 
across  to  the  window. 

"  Wisha,  go  away  abroad,"  he  added,  "  'twill  do  ye 
all  the  good  in  the  world.  Any  time'll  suit  me,  an' 
don't  ye  be  afraid  to  say  ut.  Was  it  Paris  ye  were 
saying  ?  " 

"  Duresne — ^just  outside,  about  thirty  miles." 

For  some  few  moments  that  made  a  perceptible 
pause  Father  Connelly  remained  looking  out  of  the 
lofty  window  on  to  the  open  meadow  that,  studded 
with  occasional  trees,  stretched  right  down  to  the  sea. 
At  last  he  turned  abruptly. 

"  Ye've  never  been  out  of  this  country  before,  have 
ye?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  not." 


88  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

It  would  have  seemed  from  the  tone  of  his  voice 
that  the  parish  priest  was  about  to  say  something 
else — instead  of  which  he  drew  a  large,  red,  spotted 
handkerchief  from  the  pocket  in  the  tail  of  his  coat 
and  blew  his  nose. 


CHAPTER    IX 

It  was  not  often  that  Father  Michael  went  out  to 
Ballysheen,  though  the  invitations  were  frequent. 
When  he  did,  however,  the  many  interests  which 
occupied  Father  Connelly  on  his  farm  had  all  to  be 
gone  through  with  that  childish  enthusiasm  which  the 
parish  priest  displayed  over  the  things  of  Nature. 
It  was  generally  late  when  the  curate  started  back  to 
Rathmore. 

On  this  occasion  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to 
stain  the  western  sky  with  its  flushing  gold,  and  a 
warm,  rosy  hght  hung  over  the  Galtee  Mountains  as 
Father  Michael  closed  the  white  iron  gate  after  him 
and  turned  his  face  towards  the  village. 

All  that  Father  Connelly  had  said  to  him  had  had 
the  effect,  as  it  were,  of  a  bath  of  cold,  invigorating 
water.  He  felt  younger  in  his  mind  than  he  had  done 
when  some  few  hours  before  he  had  approached  the 
house. 

A  more  defined  and  resolute  determination  had  risen 
within  him.  He  was  more  prepared  to  conquer  the 
imperative  ideas  that  had  begun  again  to  force  them- 
selves into  his  thoughts,  and  as  he  quickened  his 
steps  towards  Rathmore,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  a 
younger  man  than  he  had  always  considered  himself 
to  be. 

On  this  return  journey  from  Ballysheen  he  kept  to 
the  road  that  wound  a  tortuous  way  through  pasture 
fields  and  new-born  crops  of  fragile,  whispering 
wheat.     High  hedges  rose  on  either  side  of  him,  and 


90  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

to  his  left,  beyond  the  breadth  of  some  two  or  three 
low-lying  fields,  stretched  the  sea. 

Those  who  have  walked  the  country  roads  in  Ireland 
have  known  the  quietness  of  the  world. 

Only  the  insect  life,  and,  if  there  be  the  ocean  within 
hearing,  the  lapping  hush  of  the  waves,  make  their 
gentle  efforts  to  break  a  silence  that  seems  almost 
sacred  in  its  intensity.  Here  and  there  in  the  dis- 
tance, as  though  crouching  against  the  green  earth, 
a  whitewashed  cottage  tells  the  story  of  human  life, 
but  in  so  infinitely  unobtrusive  and  concealed  a  way 
that  the  pedestrian  feels  as  if  he  were  first  man  in 
God's  Eden. 

It  was  with  sensations  very  much  influenced  by  the 
surrounding  solitude  that  Father  Michael  walked  on 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  between  the  deep  cart-ruts 
which  no  county  council  ever  thought  fit  to  repair. 
But  the  basis  of  his  thoughts  was  far  from  being  a 
feeling  of  solitude. 

A  new  side  of  life  was  about  to  be  shown  to  him. 
He  was  going  to  study  fresh  things,  not  through 
other  eyes,  but  in  them.  It  was  quite  childish  he 
knew,  but  he  looked  forward  to  the  event  with  an 
almost  puerile  eagerness.  In  his  mind  he  ventured  to 
compare  it  with  the  eagerness  that  his  brothers  had 
shown  to  see  the  pig  killed  when  he  was  but  four 
years  old,  and  he  smiled.  It  was  not  unlike.  We 
all  become  children  when  we  see  a  strange  thing  for 
the  first  time  in  our  lives;  but  the  older  we  get  the 
less  opportunity  we  find  to  behold  those  fresh  things, 
the  more  we  come  to  realize  that  for  us,  under  the 
sun,  there  is  nothing  that  is  new. 


THE  CELIBATE  91 

Already  plans  had  begun  to  formulate  themselves  in 
his  mind.  He  recalled  the  existence  of  Maurice  Hol- 
land. The  letter  he  had  written  and  his  address  were 
still  in  his  possession.  Father  Michael  determined 
to  write  and  let  him  know  that  he  would  be  passing 
through  London  on  his  way  to  Paris. 

Vaguely  he  wondered  into  what  sort  of  man  the 
boy  would  have  grown  ;  whether  he  had  married,  and 
if  he  still  pursued  those  studies  of  theology  which 
Father  Anthony  had  so  capably  grafted  in  his  mind. 
From  this  his  imagination  led  him  into  wild  specula- 
tions and  ideas  as  to  the  size  and  wickedness  of 
London!  He  could  not  exactly  explain  why,  but  size 
and  wickedness  seemed  almost  symonymous  where  the 
cities  of  the  world  were  concerned.  It  was  partially 
from  this  standpoint  that  he  more  feared  the  going 
to  London  than  his  visit  to  Paris,  and  firmly  deter- 
mined that  however  he  was  pressed  by  his  friend  he 
would  not  stay  in  the  former  city  for  longer  than  one 
night. 

In  the  first  place,  he  had  but  little  to  defray  the 
expenses  which  would  be  needed  for  so  long  a  journey. 
Had  he  been  going  to  the  other  end  of  the  continent 
the  prospect  could  have  seemed  no  greater  in  his  mind. 
And  so,  having,  as  he  calculated  would  be  the  case, 
but  three  shillings  a  day  wherewith  to  pay  for  amuse- 
ment, he  decided  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  stay 
longer  than  one  night  in  London. 

Father  Connelly  certainly  had  offered  to  lend  him 
anything  that  he  would  need,  and  he  could  always 
write  home  to  Ballyporeen ;  but  these  two  means  of 
increasing  his  capital  he  felt  to  be  impossible.     More- 


92  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

over  to  spend  three  shillings  a  day,  when  in  Rath- 
more  he  scarcely  spent  as  much  in  a  fortnight,  seemed 
the  extreme  of  needless  extravagance. 

In  this  almost  childlike  way  he  looked  on  into  the 
near  future,  just  as  on  the  night  that  he  had  learnt 
he  was  to  become  a  priest  he  had  lain  awake  consider- 
ing all  that  lay  before  him. 

The  road  on  which  he  was  walking  took  a  sharp 
turn,  after  which  it  led  straight  on  into  Rathmore. 
As  he  came  round  the  corner,  still  ruminating  on  the 
possibilities  of  his  excursion,  he  heard  the  voice  of  a 
man  raised  in  violent  condemnation  against  some 
person  or  persons  who,  so  far  as  any  audible  reply 
was  concerned,  seemed  to  be  offering  no  resistance  to 
the  angry  threats  that  he  was  making. 

Father  Michael  stopped  for  a  moment  to  listen. 

*'Yi'rra,  the  divil  fly  away  wid  ye,  ye  little,  red- 
headed   av  a  thieving,  adulterating  publican,  ye. 

Glory  be  to  God,  if  I  catch  ye  bringing  in  thim 
starvin*  cattle  agin,  I'll  bate  ye  agin  ye  go  hoame  so 
that  yeer  father,  no  mather  if  he  do  be  sober,  won't 
recognize  ye.    I  will  so,  ye  little,  red-headed ye." 

Father  Michael  could  not  wait  to  hear  another  word. 
Whoever  it  was  and  however  justly  those  accusations 
were  deserved,  the  brutal  and  filthy  language  of  the 
man  made  his  blood  boil  within  him.  He  hurried 
through  an  open  gate  into  the  field  whose  occupants 
were  hidden  from  his  sight  by  the  high  furze  hedge 
which  skirted  the  top  of  the  bank. 

The  sight  that  met  his  eyes  was  one  that  stayed  in 
his  mind  for  many  a  day  to  come,  though  truly  cer- 
tain circumstances  helped  to  renew  its  memory. 


THE  CELIBATE  93 

Standing  in  the  thick  pasture  field,  his  legs  apart  in 
an  attitude  of  uncontrollable  anger,  was  a  man  of 
the  farming  type  though  he  wore  no  dress  to  charac- 
terize him  as  such.  A  little  higher  in  station  he  was 
than  the  man  to  whom  Father  Michael  had  spoken 
when  going  out  to  Ballyporeen  that  morning,  but  not 
far  removed  from  him  in  mind. 

At  some  httle  distance  from  him,  with  the  quaint 
appearance  of  some  fairy  sprite,  holding  a  little 
switch  of  willow  in  her  hand  and  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  waiting,  wondering  cows,  stood  a  small  girl. 
Her  head  was  raised,  but  she  was  not  looking  at  the 
man  before  her,  and  notwithstanding  the  violence  of 
his  abuse  there  was  not  the  sign  of  a  tear  in  her  eye  or 
the  suggestion  of  a  quivering  of  her  lip.  The  first 
thing  about  her  which  fastened  itself  upon  Father 
Michael's  mind  was  the  burnished  copper  redness  of 
her  hair.  Of  course  he  had  heard  that  the  man  had 
taunted  her  with  it — but  then  he  had  forgotten. 

Her  Httle  bare  feet  were  hidden  in  the  grass  that; 
grew  up  over  her  ankles  where  she  was  standing. 
There  was  a  wistful  expression  in  her  pale,  round 
face,  as  though  she  had  scarcely  heard  a  word  of 
what  had  been  said  to  her.  But  the  moment  the 
priest  made  his  appearance  in  the  field,  both  man 
and  child  turned  their  heads  quickly  in  his  direcr* 
tion. 

"  What  are  ye  after  saying  to  that  child?  "  he  asked, 
keeping  the  anger  from  his  voice  as  well  as  he  could.' 
"What's  she  after  doing  that  gives  ye  the  right  to 
speak  in  that  coarse,  vile  way  to  her?" 

The  man  he  recognized  at  once  as  being  a  small. 


94  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

farmer  in  the  district,  who  had  no  exceptional  name 
for  honesty  and,  to  Father  Michael's  knowledge, 
attended  Holy  Communion  as  seldom  as  he  dared. 
The  httle  girl  he  vaguely  remembered  having  seen 
in  the  National  School,  but  she  had  never  stood  out 
amongst  the  many  other  bare-footed  children  as  she 
seemed  to  rise  out  of  her  surroundings  here. 

**What  d'ye  mean  by  talking  to  her  like  that.''"  he 
added,  as  the  man  sullenly  made  no  answer. 

*'Wisha,  I  pay  two  pun  ten  a  year  rent  for  these 

couple  o'  acres  and  this  young "  he  hesitated  to 

choose  the  word. 

"  Be  careful ! "  Father  Michael  warned  him. 

'*  She  brings  in  thim  starvin'  cows  of  her  father's," 
he  continued,  with  no  abatement  of  his  rage,  *'she 
brings  'em  in  when  it's  drawin'  towards  evenin'  an' 
she  thinks  she  won't  be  seen.  Shure  the  Lord  knows 
I  can't  pay  two  pun  ten  a  year  to  feed  other  man's 
cattle.     I  can  not  so.     An',  by  dad,  I  doan't ! " 

All  the  right  was  obviously  on  the  man's  side.  It 
did  not  need  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  to  see  that.  But 
something  in  the  attitude  of  the  child,  something  in 
the  wistful  quaintness  of  her  appearance,  with  her 
tangled  mass  of  red  hair,  and  the  words  of  abuse 
which  the  man  had  heaped  upon  her,  made  Father 
Michael  defend  her  in  spite  of  everything. 

"Why  don't  ye  tell  that  to  her  father?"  he  said 
quickly.  It  was  always  noticeable  in  him  that  when 
his  speech  was  quick  and  his  feehngs  roused,  he  fre- 
quently resorted  to  the  custom  of  his  youth,  dropping 
the  "  you  "  for  "  ye." 

"  Why  don't  ye  go  and  threaten  him  with  that  Ian- 


THE   CELIBATE  95 

guage?  "  he  went  on.  "  Ye  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yerself,  so  ye  ought,  to  be  standing  up  there,  five 
foot  ten  if  ye're  an  inch,  an'  shouting  curses  at  a 
little  girl  not  half  yer  size." 

The  farmer  looked  sullenly  at  the  priest,  then  at 
the  girl,  finally  at  the  three  cows,  after  which  he 
turned  on  his  heel. 

"If  yeer  riverence  sees  fit  to  difind  thim  as  comes 
and  shteals  what's  afther  belonging  to  honest,  dey- 
cent,  poor  people,  sure  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
But,  by  dad,  if  I  catch  her  again  in  my  fields  " — he 
turned  and  cast  a  baleful  glance  in  her  direction — 
**  I'll  bring  the  law  again  her — ^I  will  so." 

With  this  last  threat  he  strode  away  across  the 
field,  muttering  to  himself  the  curses  that  he  had  been 
afraid  to  utter  in  the  presence  of  the  priest. 

For  the  moment  Father  Michael  followed  him  with 
his  eyes,  then,  conquering  the  impulse  to  call  a  reply 
after  his  retreating  figure,  he  turned  to  the  child. 
She  was  still  standing  in  the  same  position,  just 
swaying  the  willow  switch  backwards  and  forwards 
in  her  hand,  while  the  three  gaunt  cows  behind  her, 
chewing  the  cud  of  their  stolen  grazing,  looked  on 
with  an  air  of  silent  expectancy. 

He  bent  down  and  peered  into  her  face,  in  which 
moment  her  eyes  met  his,  but  she  still  said  nothing. 

"  What's  your  name .''  "  he  asked. 

"  Annie." 

"  Annie  what  ?  " 

"  Annie  Foley." 

"Is  your  father  the  publican  in  Rathmore?" 

"  He  is.  Father." 


m  THE  "APPLE  OF  EDEN 

She  changed  her  attitude  of  attention  from  one  foot 
to  another. 

"Is  it  true  what  Mr.  Power  said,  that  you  were 
after  bringing  in  your  cows  to  graze  on  his  land?  " 

"  It  is." 

**Do  you  know  it's  wrong — ^wicked?" 

"I  do." 

For  a  moment  Father  Michael  was  nonplussed. 
**  Why  do  you  do  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Me  father  'ud  be  after  batin'  me  if  I  didn't." 

"Beat  you?" 

"He  would." 

"  Does  he  often  beat  you  ?  " 

Until  that  moment  she  had  been  looking  down  on 
to  the  ground,  but  at  this  question  she  raised  her  eyes 
in  perfectly  innocent  surprise.  She  said  nothing,  but 
Father  Michael  realized  that  he  had  been  only  too 
fully  answered,  and  a  sudden  sense  of  pity,  that  was 
far  from  philosophical,  touched  the  human  side  of  his 
nature. 

With  her  pale  face,  spotted  here  and  there  with 
freckles  that  were  by  no  means  disfiguring,  she  seemed 
too  fragile  a  thing  to  be  beaten.  Beaten!  The 
thought  of  it  as  he  watched  her  standing  there  wist- 
fully in  front  of  him  made  his  blood  throb  with 
sudden  heat  in  his  temples.  He  did  not  know  that 
in  that  moment  his  sensations  were  excessively  human. 
He  did  not  recognize  that,  in  that  feeling  of  compel- 
ling anger,  he  was  subject  to  the  primary  instinct  of 
man  for  woman — the  instinct  of  protection  which 
impels  the  lion  to  shelter  the  honness  and  her  cubs,  the 
ape  to  fight  for  the  mother  with  its  young. 


THE   CELIBATE  97 

As  Father  Connelly  had  but  vaguely  seen,  he  had 
deeply  studied  moral  philosophy,  yet  of  these  primal 
facts  of  nature,  upon  wliich  no  book  save  that  great, 
open  volume  of  experience  has  been  written,  he  knew 
nothing. 

"  You'd  better  be  driving  your  cows  home,"  he  said 
quietly.  "And  I'll  come  and  see  your  father  to- 
morrow." 

Without  another  word  she  gathered  the  big  beasts 
together.  They  knew  well  enough  what  her  action 
meant ;  and  though  had  they  chosen  they  might  with 
their  huge  bodies  that  towered  over  her  spritlsh  figure 
have  taken  their  will  in  any  direction,  yet  they  filed 
out  slowly  on  to  the  road,  whisking  their  long  tails 
and  turning  down  the  straight  way  into  Rathmore. 

Glancing  no  more  in  his  direction  she  followed 
behind  them  swaying  her  willow  switch,  sometimes  lay- 
ing it  gently  on  the  back  of  the  cow  nearest  her. 

He  closed  the  gate  slowly  after  her,  and  when  he  too 
turned  on  to  the  road,  she  was  some  thirty  or  forty 
yards  in  front  of  him,  her  short  skirt  swaying  to  and 
fro  with  every  step  of  her  bare,  brown  legs. 

Some  thing,  some  infinitesimal  thing,  with  his 
neurotic  susceptibility  to  suggestion,  had  in  the  last 
few  moments  altered  the  entire  channel  of  his 
thoughts.  He  was  not  aware  of  the  change  himself. 
It  had  been  far  too  subtle. 

Nature  works  underground,  and  only  the  crops  and 
the  crises  of  life  come  to  the  surface. 

He  was  wondering  as  he  walked  along  to  Rath- 
more,  keeping  his  distance  behind  her,  why  her  red 
hair  had  seemed  to  strike  a  note  of  familiarity  in  his 


98  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

mind.  It  was  only  vaguely  that  he  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  her  in  the  National  School  before.  Some  one, 
he  was  certain,  had  spoken  to  him  of  that  coloured 
hair  under  peculiar  circumstances.  Ah !  of  course — 
the  young  man  who  as  yet  had  not  returned  for  the 
absolution  of  his  sin. 

The  moment  that  his  mind  had  joined  the  two  cir- 
cumstances he  harked  back  to  the  face  of  the  little 
girl.  Too  much  interested  in  his  thoughts  to  realize 
their  departure  from  the  ordinary  routine  he  tried  to 
piece  together,  as  it  were  a  puzzle,  some  vision  of  the 
little  girl's  face  when  she  should  become  a  woman. 
He  agreed  tacitly  with  himself  that  no  doubt  she 
would  grow  to  be  what  Maurice  Holland  would  de- 
scribe as  pretty.  Already,  young  as  she  was.  Father 
Michael  fancied  he  saw  something  behind  her  nature 
which  found  no  connection  with  the  indefinite  idea 
that  he  had  formed  and  accepted  of  woman  as  a  sex. 

Was  it  a  depth  ?  Possibly — but  of  what  ?  A  depth 
of  something  that  seemed  to  attract  him,  as  one  is 
physically  drawn  to  look  'over  a  great  and  giddy 
height. 

Whatever  it  was  it  was  all  very  intangible.  But  he 
arrived  so  far  in  this  almost  unconscious  introspec- 
tion as  to  admit  that  probably,  when  she  grew  to  be  a 
woman,  she  would  possess  an  uncommon  face — a  face 
that  would  put  her  apart  from  the  ordinary  members 
of  her  sex  who  were,  as  he  had  often  told  himself 
before,  flippant,  empty-headed,  and  incapable  of  any- 
thing beyond  the  domestic  duties  of  a  wife. 

And  so,  though  she  still  walked  before  him,  a  little 
girl  with  short  skirts  and  bare  legs,  he  continued  to 


THE  CELIBATE  99 

look  upon  her  in  the  light  of  the  woman  that  she  would 
be,  not  in  the  light  of  the  child  that  she  was. 

Thus,  with  absolute  unconsciousness,  he  broke  the 
first  and  strongest  of  his  principles — the  example  of 
St.  Aloysius,  who  never  looked  even  into  his  mother's 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 

That  evening  Father  Michael  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
his  sister.  In  a  fortnight's  time  he  told  her  he  would 
be  with  her  in  Duresne,  and  it  was  his  intention  to 
stay  for  at  least  three  weeks,  this  being  the  time  that 
the  parish  priest  had  strongly  advised  him  to  remain 
away. 

Havihg  finished  this  epistle  he  wrote  another  to 
Maurice  Holland  telling  him  on  what  day  he  would 
arrive  in  London,  and  having  posted  them,  he  acted 
on  the  advice  of  Father  Connelly,  and  set  out  for 
another  walk  into  the  country. 

The  following  day  was  Saturday  and  at  five  o'clock 
he  went  down  to  the  chapel.  There  were  already 
some  thirteen  or  fourteen  people  clustering  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  confessional  box,  all  crouched  in  atti- 
tudes of  prayer,  but  with  wistful  eyes  turned  towards 
the  sacristy  door  in  expectation  of  his  arrival. 

Changing  his  coat  for  the  soutane  he  walked 
leisurely  down  the  aisle.  He  had  scarcely  hung  the 
stole  about  his  shoulders  and  taken  his  seat  in  the 
confessional  before  the  first  penitent  commenced  her 
**  Confiteor  "  through  the  grating. 

For  the  space  of  two  hours  he  listened  with  perfect 
patience  to  the  tales  that  conscience  urged  from  the 
supphcants  at  his  side.  One  by  one  the  little  sins, 
with  infinite  monotony,  were  whispered  in  to  his 
ears.  . 

There  was  but  small  variety,  for  the  sins  which  are 
100 


THE  CELIBATE  101 

committed  in  an  Irish  village  will  continue  to  be 
sinned  to  the  end  of  time. 

But  to  each  one  of  them,  Father  Connelly's  advice 
still  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  had  a  kindly  word  to  say 
or  a  gentle  reminder  to  make.  And  all  the  railing  of 
philosophy  against  the  apparent  uselessness  of  coun- 
sel he  kept  to  himself. 

At  last  all  but  one  had  confessed  their  sins  and 
left  the  church.  The  one  penitent  remaining  was 
none  other  than  the  young  man  to  whom  three  weeks 
before  Father  Michael  had  refused  absolution. 

The  moment  that  he  entered  the  confessional  and 
began  his  "  Confiteor  "  the  priest  recognized  his  voice, 
and  an  unusual  feeling  of  interest  quickened  in  his 
mind  as  he  waited  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say. 

"I  confessed  my  sin  to  you  three  weeks  ago, 
Father,"  he  began  after  the  final  self -accusation. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,  my  son." 

**  And  I  have  taken  your  advice." 

"You  must  remind  me  there.     What  was  it.?" 

"I  do  not  see  her  now." 

"And  she?" 

Father  Michael  looked  at  the  curtain  before  him  as 
he  waited  for  the  answer. 

"For  a  week  I  heard  nothing  from  her.  A  fort- 
night ago  she  wrote  and  told  me  that  she  was  going 
away — abroad." 

"  And  she  wiU  wait  until  you  can  marry  her?  " 

"  She  did  not  say  anything  about  that." 

Father  Michael  frowned  with  his  habitual  austerity. 

"  Do  you  infer  that  she  will  not?  " 

The  young  man  paused  before  he  answered,  and 


102  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEK^ 

Father  Michael  felt  intuitively  that  a  conflict  of 
thoughts  was  passing  in  his  mind. 

"How  can  I  say,  Father?"  he  said  at  length.  "I 
told  you  the  last  time  tha,t  she  was  young.  A  girl  of 
twenty-one  never  does  know  her  own  mind." 

He  said  this  bitterly.  To  a  connoisseur  of  senti- 
ment it  would  have  sounded  inconsiderate. 

**  Know  her  own  mind  ?  "  Father  Michael  exclaimed. 
The  combative  instinct  was  ahve  in  him  again.  It 
was  not  in  his  nature  to  allow  his  rudimentary  ideas 
of  right  and  wrong  to  be  threatened  with  demolition 
unchallenged. 

"Know  her  own  mind.''"  he  repeated  sharply. 
*'Why,  she  gave  her  mind  when  she  gave  her  body. 
As  the  one  is  yours  by  nature,  so  is  the  other.  You 
defied  the  laws  and  ordinances  of  God;  there  is  only 
one  reparation — to  fulfil  them  as  soon  as  you  are 
able." 

"There  is  nothing  that  I  want  so  much,  Father," 
he  said  self -defensively.  "  But  I  told  you,  when  you 
advised  me  to  avoid  the  temptation  of  seeing  her,  I 
told  you  that,  without  my  constant  influence,  she 
might  learn  to  care  for  some  one  else." 

Father  Michael  almost  rose  in  his  seat. 

"But  her  child!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  to  be- 
come of  that  ?  You  wiU  be  its  father,  she  its  mother. 
Yet  you  talk  of  her  caring  for  some  one  else !  Where 
have  you  been  brought  up,  that,  apparently  in  the 
most  casual  way,  you  can  talk  of  such  things  .'*  Care 
for  some  one  else !     But  what  of  her  child,  I  say  ?  " 

"  She  will  have  no  child,  Father.  There  will  be  no 
chUd." 


THE   CELIBATE  lOS 

Only  the  shifting  of  the  penitent's  position  and  the 
deep-drawn  breath  of  the  priest  broke  the  immediate 
silence  that  followed. 

This  truly  was  a  side  of  life  of  which  Father  Michael 
knew  nothing,  except  from  hearsay,  and  he  mixed 
with  few  indeed  who  ever  made  it  a  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. Certainly  in  all  his  experience,  which  no  doubt 
was  very  limited,  he  had  never  come  into  actual  con- 
tact with  it  before. 

In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  grasp  its  motives, 
and  in  the  second,  he  knew  it  to  be  against  all  the 
binding  laws  of  humanity.  If  it  really  were  an  in- 
stinct of  mankind  to  circumvent  the  laws  of  nature, 
why  did  even  the  poorest  of  the  poor  people — ^those, 
for  example,  with  whom  he  came  into  personal  con- 
tact day  after  day — why  did  they  not  lessen  the 
degree  of  their  responsibilities,  and  consider  their 
inability  to  support  the  children  who  often  clamoured 
at  their  sides  for  a  piece  of  bread?  If  it  were  an 
instinct  of  mankind,  why  did  they  not  do  as  this 
young  man  had  done. J*  Because  they  knew  the  sin 
of  it !  Because  it  was  not  natural  in  them !  Because 
God's  laws  of  nature  were  irrevocable,  imavoidable, 
omnipotent. 

A  sudden  remembrance  of  Molly,  the  maid-of-all- 
work  at  BaUyporeen,  crossed  his  mind.  She  had 
sinned.  But  had  her  sin  been  as  great  as  this  ?  Had 
she  shunned  the  terrible  reckoning,  avoided  the  awful 
retribution  which  she  knew  must  inevitably  fall  upon 
her?     She  had  not! 

No  doubt  it  was  a  natural  instinct  to  many  to 
become  the  father  or  mother  of  some  living  thing. 


104  THE   APPLE   OF  EDJ^IN 

and  for  that  weakness  of  their  natures  God  had 
mercifully  ordained  the  sacrament  of  matrimony. 
But  this  other — the  more  bestial  side  of  life — he 
could  neither  understand  nor  tolerate.  It  all  hung 
upon  that  other  point  of  view,  the  idea  that  there 
were  powers  in  a  woman's  face,  in  a  woman's  looks, 
to  draw  men  from  their  control;  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  canonical  writings  of  Ezra,  the  scribe  of  the 
Babylonish  captivity,  he  could  have  shouted  aloud  to 
the  world  that  it  was  untrue. 

feeing  that  the  greatest  of  all  the  apostles  had 
declared  the  greater  perfection  of  the  continent  life, 
how  could  it  be  that  there  were  external  things,  such 
as  the  looks  of  a  woman,  which  could  carry  with  them 
so  unavoidable  temptation  for  a  man  ?  Yes  !  It  was 
all  untrue,  and  he  thanked  God  that  he  knew  it  to 
be  so. 

'*You  did  not  tell  me  this  before,"  he  said,  when 
these  thoughts  had  conquered  for  him  the  first  impulse 
of  contempt. 

"  I  thought  you  understood  that.  Father.  Anything 
else  would  have  been  impossible.  I  know  that  I  have 
sinned,  but  I  did  not  forget  her  reputation." 

In  his  words,  a  quicker  perception  than  Father 
Michael's  might  have  traced  a  certain  tone  of  self- 
conscious  generosity. 

"  I  told  you  before,  I  loved  her — ^passionately,  if  you 
like — ^but  as  honestly  and  faithfully  as  I  am  able. 
Had  I  carried  my  passions  any  further  her  life 
would  have  been  ruined,  because  I  cannot,  as  far 
as  I  can  see,  marry  her  for  at  least  another  year  or 
more." 


THE   CELIBATE  105 

The  pause  after  his  last  words  was  short,  but  it  was 
full  of  significance. 

"What  is  reputation?"  asked  the  priest  quietly* 

The  young  man  looked  about  him  uncomfortably  in 
the  little,  cramped  confessional. 

"  What  is  reputation  ?  "  Father  Michael  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  mean .?  Reputation  ? 
Reputation  is  the  opinion  of  the  world  upon  the  char- 
acter, the  moral  character,  of  any  person." 

"That  is  reputation.?" 

*'  Yes,  I  think  so.  That  is  what  I  should  call  repu- 
tation." 

"  Then  what  do  you  call  your  own  opinion  of  your- 
self.?" 

"  Conscience,  I  suppose.  One  does  not  tell  it  to 
everybody  else,  so  that  it  can  have  nothing  to  do  with 
reputation." 

"  And  because  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  reputa- 
tion, it  does  not  matter.?  My  son,"  Father  Michael's 
voice  became  deep  with  a  sudden  solemnity,  "  such  as 
you  in  this  world  take  the  pen  of  your  own  fate  in 
your  hand  and  write  your  own  damnation.  What  is 
the  reputation  of  this  world  compared  with  the  wel- 
fare of  your  soul  in  the  next .?  You  say  it  would  have 
ruined  her  life .?  Were  it  not  better  that  her  life  were 
ruined  now  than  damned  hereafter,?  " 

*'  There  is  always  forgiveness  of  sins  in  the  next 
world.  Father;  but  in  this,  there  is  no  hope  for  a 
fallen  reputation." 

"  So  you  ply  a  trade  with  God,  my  son,  and  barter 
your  repentance  for  a  reputation.?  I  must  know  but 
little  of  the  world,  if  that  is  the  way  of  life." 


106  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

**I  am  no  exception,  Father.  In  fact,  I  am  the 
general  rule.  I  don't  say  it  in  self-defence.  Like 
thousands  of  others  my  passions  are  strong,  but  my 
mind  revolts  against — ^against  the  hired  women,  and 
so " 

"Well,  and  so?" 

*'I  have  sinned  where  I  loved,  and  because  I  love 
her  I  must  shield  her  reputation." 

"  But  she,  you  say,  may  learn  to  care  for  some  one 
else?" 

*'That  is  not  mi/  sin.  Father.  I  did  not  come  to 
confess  that.  I  came  to  tell  you  that,  to  prove  my 
repentance,  I  had  risked  the  loss  of  her  affection — 
that  I  had  followed  your  advice  and  would  not  see 
her  for  fear  I  should  fall  again.  Possibly  you  don't 
know  how  much  that  has  meant  to  me,  but  I  have 
done  it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  my  sin." 

The  human  mind  is  one  marvellous  complexity  of 
motives.  From  the  feeling  of  bitter  contempt  and 
disgust  for  the  ways  of  life  that  were  being  shown 
him  Father  Michael  was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by 
a  spirit  of  pity  and  sympathy.  He  could  not  and 
did  not  try  to  explain  its  presence.  It  might  have 
been  the  note  of  human  foreboding  that  had  found 
its  way  into  the  young  man's  voice.  It  might  have 
been  his  half-realized  sense  of  the  sacrifice  that  the 
penitent  had  made.  But  whatever  it  was  he  leant  his 
elbows  forward  on  his  knees  and  prayed — prayed  for 
the  perfect  and  absolute  right  to  absolve  him  of  his 
sin,  and — ^before  he  was  aware  of  it — prayed  for  the 
soul  of  the  girl  who  had  sinned  with  him,  that  she  too 
might  gain  the  spirit  of  repentance  and  that  she 


THE   CELIBATE  107 

would  not  use  the  beauty  which  God  had  given  her 
to  tempt  the  minds  of  others. 

He  had  scarcely  whispered  the  last  words  of  his 
request  into  the  silence  where  God  waits  for  the  sound 
of  all  prayers,  when  the  village  organist,  unaware 
that  he  was  still  hearing  confession,  seated  herself 
at  the  little  organ  in  the  gallery  above  the  door,  and 
pulling  out  the  stops  began  to  practise  the  music  for 
the  next  day's  Mass. 

The  soft,  human  notes  of  the  little  instrument  stole 
out  into  the  gathering  twilight,  and  as  she  began  the 
first  bar  of  the  "  O  Salutaris  "  Father  Michael  leant 
forward  and  pronounced  the  Absolution. 


CHAPTER   XI 

For  tKc  next  fortnight  Father  Michael  waged  war 
against  an  unwarrantable  excitement.  He  was  per- 
fectly aware  that  the  majority  of  well-to-do  people 
go  abroad  once  nearly  every  year;  but  the  point  of 
view,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  that  he  was 
going  and  it  was  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Yet, 
however  excusable  this  excitement  which  had  over- 
taken him  might  be,  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  it 
from  every  one  but  himself. 

The  keen  and  natural  perception  of  Father  Con- 
nelly, however,  was  not  to  be  duped. 

On  the  day  before  his  departure  they  met  in  the 
main  street  of  the  village.  Father  Michael  was  hur- 
rying to  the  local  car-driver  to  order  a  car  that  would 
bring  him  to  the  nearest  railway  station  at  Anesk. 

The  parish  priest,  with  his  legs  wide  apart  and  hands 
behind  his  back,  was  surveying  the  efforts  of  some 
workmen  who  were  repairing  the  roof  of  a  little  cot- 
tage for  the  possession  of  which  he  had  lately  invested 
some  sixty  pounds. 

*'  Ah,  shure,  Tim ! "  he  was  calling  out  to  one  of  the 
labourers,  "for  goodness'  sake  be  more  careful  of 
that  slating.  Yirra,  my  good  man,  ye're  not  walk- 
ing across  the  floor  of  yeer  own  kitchen." 

Father  Michael  stopped. 

"Fm  glad  I'm  not  a  house-owner.  Father  Tom," 
he  said  lightly. 

Father  Connelly  laughed  with  his  loud  voice. 
108 


THE   CELIBATE  109 

"  Faith,  if  ye  were,"  said  he,  "  ye'd  be  a  good  deal 
happier  with  the  worry  of  it.  An'  so  ye're  off  to- 
morrow?" 

« I  am,  I  think." 

«  Ye  think?" 

He  laid  a  friendly  hand  upon  Father  Michael's 
shoulder. 

**  Don't  tell  me  ye've  been  thinking,"  he  said,  his 
small  eyes  screwing  themselves  into  a  hiunorous 
expression.  "  Why,  Father  Michael,  ye're  as  excited 
as  ^  child.  Ye  can't  think.  An',  mind  ye,  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  it's  about  the  best  thing  in  the  world  that 
could  happen  to  ye.  There  are  certain  professions," 
he  leant  forward  and  endeavoured  to  say  this  in  a 
much  lower  voice  into  the  curate's  ear,  "  there  are 
certain  professions  that  require  thinking  men.  Mind 
ye,  I  don't  say  that  they  always  get  them.  But  they 
pay  a  high  price  in  the  hope  of  doing  so.  Such  for 
instance  are  doctors — especially  doctors — faith,  if 
they  thought  more  they'd  do  less — lawyers,  politeesh- 
ans,  and  town-councillors.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
where  they  pay  but  little,  they  want  men  who  can't 
think,  who  won't  think." 

"An'  what  professions  are  they?'* 

Father  Connelly  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders  and 
cast  a  glance  up  to  the  roof  of  his  cottage. 

*'  Plate-laying,  kingship,  the  Army  and  the  Church." 

Father  Michael  looked  straightly  into  the  unflinch- 
ing eyes  of  the  parish  priest. 

"  The  Church?  "  he  echoed. 

"  The  Church.  To  think,  in  that  profession,  is  fatal. 
When  I  was  as  young  as  thirty-three — ^yirra,  God  be 


110  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

with  the  days — I  said  to  myself:  *  Father  Tom,'  I 
said,  *  ye're  drilling  a  hole  in  year  own  peace  of  mind. 
Chuck  the  drill  away,'  I  said,  an'  faith,  from  that 
moment  to  this,  I  haven't  had  a  thought  in  me  head 
worth  speaking  of.  I  have  not.  Go  along  now  and 
order  yeer  car.  An',  mind  ye,  carmen  belong  to  those 
professions  that  want  thinking  men,  so  be  shure  ye 
see  that  Ryan  is  sober.  A  man  can't  think  when  he's 
had  some  liquor  taken,  that's  why  he's  always  such 
a  good  companion." 

At  that  they  parted,  Father  Connelly  promising  to 
come  and  say  good-bye  to  his  curate  before  he  left. 

Pat  Ryan,  the  car-driver,  was  notorious  for  his  in- 
temperance; but  as  he  owned  the  only  vehicle  of  a 
travelling  description  in  Rathmore,  this  little  failing 
had  to  be  overlooked.  Mrs.  Ryan,  who  took  all  his 
orders  whilst  he  was  attending  to  the  exigencies  of 
his  business  in  Folejr's  public-house,  exerted  her  in- 
genuity to  its  utmost  to  discover  Father  Michael's 
intentions. 

"Will  ye  be  afther  wantin'  the  car  to  wait  for  ye 
in  Anesk,  Father.'"'  she  asked,  peering  at  him  with 
her  small,  thin,  brown  eyes. 

"I  shall  not.  Pat  had  better  come  straight  back. 
If  I  hear  that  he  stayed  in  Anesk,  got  drunk  and  then 
ill-treated  his  horse,  I'll  never  hire  him  again." 

Mrs.  Ryan  took  no  notice  of  this.  She  had  so  fre- 
quently heard  the  same  threat  from  others,  and  knew 
quite  well  the  impossibility  which  attended  its  execu- 
tion. What  most  concerned  her  was  the  fact  that 
Father  Everett  was  going  away,  and  as  yet  she  had 
not  learnt  where  to. 


THE  CELIBATE  lit 

"Will  there  be  any  luggage  at  all?"  she  inquired, 
shaking  off  at  the  same  time  the  attentions  of  the 
youngest  of  her  many  children  who  was  pulling  at  her 
skirts. 

The  population  of  Ireland  may  be  small  but  it  is 
not  for  the  want  of  children. 

Father  Michael  was  calculating  in  his  mind  what 
things  he  could  take  with  him  so  that  he  did  not  realize 
what  she  had  said.  Determining  not  to  lose  the  point, 
she  repeated  the  question. 

"  There  will,"  he  replied.  "  A  tin  trunk  and  one  or 
two  small  things." 

"So  ye'll  be  afther  goin'  away  for  yeer  holidays, 
Father?  I  suppose  ye  won't  be  going  back  to  Bally- 
poreen  at  all,  will  ye  now?  " 

He  smiled  as  he  turned  towards  the  door. 

"IshaUnot." 

"Then  maybe  ye'll  be  goin'  to  Dublin?  Ye  will  av 
course." 

But  by  this  time  Father  Michael  had  reached  the 
door  and  was  the  next  moment  out  again  in  the  street. 

"  Maybe,  Mrs.  Ryan,"  he  said  with  humorous  enjoy- 
ment of  her  unsatisfied  curiosity,  "It's  quite  pos- 
sible." And  then  he  hurried  back  to  his  little  cottage 
to  finish  the  rest  of  his  packing. 

While  he  was  in  the  midst  of  this  occupation  the 
cheerful  voice  of  Father  Connelly  asking  Mrs. 
McGrath  if  he  was  in  came  to  him  from  the  hall.  The 
next  moment  the  parish  priest  was  taking  three  steps 
at  a  time  in  a  leisurely  stride  up  to  his  room. 

"Well,  I'll  be  going  back  to  Ballysheen  in  about 
half-au-hour,"  he  announced,  standing  in  an  attitude 


in         THE  "APPLE  OF  EDEN 

of  interest  as  he  watched  Father  Michael  stowing 
away  his  things  into  his  tin-box.  "  So  I  thought  I'd 
be  saying  good-bye  to  ye  now.  Ye'U  be  gone  to-mor- 
row morning  agen  I  get  into  Rathmore." 

**I  will,  I  suppose."  He  stood  up  and  rested  his 
back.  "I'm  frequently  getting  a  pain  through  the 
lower  part  of  my  spine,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  parish 
priest  to  explain  the  action. 

"Wisha,  then,  throw  all  the  things  in.  Father 
Michael.  Shure  they're  not  ball-dresses  ye're  pack- 
ing. It  never  takes  me  more  than  five  minutes  to  pack 
me  trunk,  faith,  it's  the  unpacking  that  I  find  the  busi- 
ness. But,  teU  me  now,  what  are  ye  going  to  do  with 
yerself?" 

"  When  I'm  away,  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  do,  of  course." 

"Oh,  see  as  much  as  I  can.  There  are  a  good 
many  places  I  ought  to  have  seen.  I  want  to  go  to 
the  British  Museum." 

Father  Connelly  held  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  said  he,  his  long,  upper  lip 
rigid  as  it  always  was  when  his  mood  was  humorous. 
"Here's  a  man  going  away  on  a  holiday  to  enjoy 
himself.  He's  leaving  after  him  the  most  archaic 
and  primitive  place  in  the  world,  and  the  first  sight 
he  thinks  of  visiting  is  the  British  Museum.  Faith, 
I  suppose  ye'U  be  hunting  up  all  the  Waterford 
people  that  are  in  London  ?  " 

Father  Michael  laughed  in  the  mere  excitement  of 
anticipation  and  then  went  on  with  his  packing. 

Sitting  on  the  one  available  chair  which  was  not 
covered  with  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  all  kinds 


THE  CELIBATE  113 

and  conditions  of  undergarments  the  parish  priest 
watched  him  with  quiet  and  interested  amusement. 

"  And  is  the  British  Museum  to  be  the  climax  of 
yeer  amusement  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  short  time. 

"Oh,  It  will  not.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  see 
the  new  Cathedral  at  Westminster,  the  Oratory,  St. 
Paul's,  I  think,  and  one  or  two  other  places  if  I  have 
time.  You  see,  I'm  only  going  to  be  In  London  for  a 
few  hours  of  one  day  and  part  of  the  next." 

"  An'  where  are  ye  going  to  stay  ?  " 

"With  a  man  named  Holland.  I  knew  him  some 
time  ago,  before  I  came  here." 

"  Is  he  a  Waterf  ord  man  ?  " 

"  He's  not  then.     He  comes  from  Belfast." 

"  This  country,  anyway.  Supposing  now  I  give  ye 
a  letter  to  a  man  I  used  to  know  in  London.  He's 
never  been  inside  this  country  In  his  life.  Don't  ye 
think  It  would  take  ye  more  out  of  yerself,  than 
sitting  down  with  a  Belfast  man  and  talking  over  old 
times  till  for  all  the  world  ye  might  be  back  In  this 
country  without  ever  having  thought  of  taking  a 
holiday  ?  " 

"Well,  thank  you  very  much,  Father  Tom,  but  I 
want  to  see  this  man  Holland  very  much.  He's  an 
old  friend  of  mine,  and  I  am  anxious  to  know  how 
he's  been  getting  on  in  London." 

The  parish  priest  rose  from  his  chair  and  began 
buttoning  up  his  coat. 

"Well,  as  ye  like,"  said  he,  his  upper  lip  relaxing 
from  its  former  rigidity.  "  I  was  only  trying  to  point 
out  to  ye  that  new  places  are  not  a  sufficient  change 
for  a  man  who's  got  into  the  sort  of  groove  that  ye 


114  THE  APPLE  OP  EDEN 

have.  They're  only  a  different  combination  of  bricks, 
mortar  and  paving  stones.  It's  the  new  people  and 
the  new  minds  which  a  man  is  afther  meeting  that 
make  a  change  in  him.  I  may  be  all  wrong,  mind 
ye,  but  I  don't  expect  to  see  much  difference  in  ye 
when  ye  come  back.     I  do  not." 

Father  Michael  stood  up  again  to  rest  his  back. 

"  But  why  should  you  be  worrying  yourself  about 
it  at  all,?  "  he  asked.  "  I'll  thoroughly  enjoy  myself. 
I'm  quite  certain  of  that,  an'  shure — well  shure,  why 
worry  yourself?" 

The  parish  priest  had  turned  to  the  door,  but  on  a 
sudden  impulse  he  came  back  into  the  room  and  for 
the  second  time  that  morning,  as  though  there  were 
some  apprehension  in  his  mind,  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  curate's  shoulder. 

"I  never  worry,"  he  said — quite  quietly  for  him. 
"  When  a  man  worries,  he  goes  out  considerably  more 
than  half  the  road  to  meet  the  diwle  an'  insists  on 
dragging  him  home  with  him.  If  I  was  going  to 
worry  meself,  faith,  I'd  first  buy  me  coffin — I  would 
so — an'  by  dad,  I'd  see  that  I  didn't  pay  for  it 
either.  No,  my  son,"  he  raised  his  hand  and  brought 
it  down  again  gently  on  Father  Michael's  shoulder, 
"I'm  not  worrying  about  ye.  It  may  be  that  I'm 
interested  in  ye.     P'raps  that's  what  it  is." 

He  held  out  his  hand  solemnly  and  gripped  Father 
Michael's  in  its  vice.  The  next  moment,  without 
another  word  he  had  passed  out  of  the  room,  de- 
scended the  small  staircase  that  led  up  from  the  hall, 
and  the  door  banged  after  him  as  he  stepped  into  the 
road. 


THE  CELIBATE  115 

Father  Michael  stood  in  the  same  attitude  listening 
to  the  different  sounds  of  his  departure,  and  when 
outside  he  heard  him  greeting  a  labourer  in  his  usual 
strident  voice  he  turned  back  again  to  his  tin  box  and 
closed  the  lid. 

There  was  not  a  sedative  in  the  world  that  could 
have  brought  quietness  of  mind  to  him  that  night. 
He  was  going  away ;  right  into  another  country  and 
into  yet  another  from  that. 

When  a  man  has  fitted  the  first  twenty-six  years  of 
his  life  into  a  groove  and  then  in  one  moment  finds — 
not  that  he  is  going  to  drift  into  a  fresh  channel — 
but  that,  for  however  short  a  period,  he  is  going  to 
step  into  an  absolutely  new  state  of  existence,  the 
whole  of  the  prospect  teems  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
possibiUty. 

With  Father  Michael  the  idea  had  caught  hold  of 
the  undeveloped  phase  of  his  youth;  that  phase  which 
is  evolved  into  manhood  by  the  action  and  energy  of 
the  senses,  which  with  him  had  lain  in  a  state  of  abso- 
lute quiescence  until  the  moment  when  this  long  vista 
of  intangible  possibilities  had  called  it  into  being. 

Even  now  it  was  but  scarcely  awake,  as  is  the  man 
roused  early  from  his  slumbers  and  told  that  his  day's 
work  must  begin.  Indeed  it  had  been  so  slightly 
stirred  that  as  yet  the  priest  was  utterly  unaware  of 
its  existence.  In  the  study  of  philosophy  and  the 
cultivation  of  his  mind  he  had  left  his  body  behind  to 
take  care  of  itself,  and  it  was  only  when  his  nervous- 
ness and  the  inability  to  sleep  came  upon  him  that  he 
was  in  any  way  aware  of  its  presence. 

He  watched  the  next  morning  break  with  glowing 


116  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

shafts  of  light  from  the  east.  At  one  moment,  as  it 
seemed,  his  httle  room  was  in  darkness,  then  the  next, 
the  grey  light  filtered  in  making  visible  all  the  objects 
with  which  it  was  furnished.  It  seemed  almost  impos- 
sible to  think  that  on  the  very  next  morning  he  would 
not  see  them  again  for  three  weeks  or  more. 

As  he  lay  awake  lazily  contemplating  all  that  he 
would  be  doing  in  the  next  twenty-four  hours  the 
grey  lights  softly  toned  into  gold  and  the  newly-risen 
sun  began  to  find  its  way  through  the  thin  lace 
curtains.  After  that  who  could  persist  in  calling  it 
night.''  It  was  day — and  in  another  moment  he  was 
out  of  bed  and  dressing  himself  in  the  clothes  in 
which  he  intended  to  travel. 

As  it  was  only  approaching  six  o'clock  and  there 
was  nothing  further  in  the  way  of  packing  to  be  done, 
he  crept  noiselessly  down-stairs,  opened  the  front 
door  and  went  out  for  a  walk  before  the  hour  at  which 
he  had  previously  ordered  breakfast. 

In  that  clear,  still  light  of  the  early  morning  the 
world  seemed  new,  almost  strange.  Turning  towards 
the  sea  he  made  his  way  to  the  long  stretch  of 
strand  by  which  he  had  walked  out  to  Ballysheen  on 
the  morning  that  he  had  received  the  letter  from  his 
sister. 

Cleansed  and  smoothened  by  the  ebbing  sea  the  sand 
stretched  out  a  mile  before  him,  patched  here  and 
there  with  dark  tufts  of  seaweed  that,  clinging  to 
the  projection  of  some  half -buried  stone,  had  resisted 
the  efforts  of  the  receding  tide.  As  yet  no  footmarks 
had  been  made  to  break  its  yielding  surface.  It  lay 
there,  the  bed  of  the  great  sea  given  up  to  mankind, 


THE   CELIBATE  117 

a  right  of  way,  the  use  of  which  no  urban  law  could 
dispute. 

It  was  not,  he  thought,  as  he  looked  out  to  the  dark 
purple  shadows  of  the  first  headland  that  stood  out 
to  sea,  it  was  not  that  he  would  never  see  the  place 
again ;  but  that  he  realized  he  was  going  a  very  long 
way  away  from  it,  and  a  sudden  appreciation  of  the 
meaning  these  simple  surroundings  had  held  for  him 
made  him  for  the  moment  think  differently  of  his 
departure.  Had  he  been  asked,  there  were  but  few 
reasons  for  which  he  would  have  given  up  his  pros- 
pect. Yet  to  himself,  in  the  silence  of  his  own  mind, 
he  was  conscious  of  an  irresistible  sensation  of  loneli- 
ness; almost  a  physical  dread  of  what  the  future 
might  hold  in  its  hand. 

Father  Connelly  had  said  that  he  would  not  expect 
to  find  him  changed.  Well,  he  was  not  sorry  for 
that.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  different.  After  all,  this 
was  what  from  the  first  he  had  expected  his  life  to 
be.  It  differed  in  no  way  from  his  original  concep- 
tion of  it,  except  that  probably  he  had  found  a 
greater  solemnity  in  his  calling  than  he  had  at  first 
anticipated. 

The  parish  priest  he  knew  to  be  as  noble  a  man  in 
his  vocation  as  the  Church  could  wish  to  find,  but,  for 
all  that,  Father  Michael  could  not  accept  life  as  he 
took  it.  Life  was  a  serious  matter.  Every  great 
man  had  found  it  so,  and  not  because  he  fancied 
himself  great,  but  because  he  worshipped  greatness, 
he  found  it  to  be  so  as  well. 

Father  Connelly  did  not  worry  himself,  but  that 
was  because  life  held  no  serious  side  for  him.     He 


118  THE  APPLE   OF   EDEN 

probably  had  no  thoughts  to  conquer,  no  inclinations 
to  repel.  How  should  he  worry  himself  ?  To  Father 
Michael,  who  took  all  things  to  heart,  life  was  full  of 
those  little  mental  jars.  The  smallest  thought  which 
he  considered  derogatory  to  his  calling  had  to  be 
killed,  annihilated,  and  the  battle  was  a  continual 
one. 

No,  life  certainly  was  a  great  matter.  From  the 
very  beginning  almost  he  had  accepted  and  treated 
it  as  such,  and  nothing  that  the  parish  priest  could 
say  would  alter  his  opinion  of  it. 

He  remembered  the  older  man's  accusing  him  of 
the  fault  of  his  youth.  He  had  not  said  it  to  Father 
Connelly,  of  course,  because  he  was  filled  with  every 
respect  for  liim,  but  he  fancied  that  in  matters  of  the 
mind  he  thought  more  deeply  and  came  more  closely 
to  the  real,  spiritual  root  of  things  than  did  the  elder 
man  to  whom  he  owed  obedience. 

But  in  all  these  matters,  as  they  filed  slowly  through 
his  thoughts,  he  did  not  stop  to  consider  that  if  the 
mind  grows  old  before  the  body  it  is  an  unnatural, 
precocious  and  morbid  maturity.  He  did  not  realize 
that  all  its  reasonings  are  unsound,  that  all  its  ideas 
are  fallacies.  Had  he  been  told  that  it  is  only  the 
combined  growth  of  these  two  great  factors  which 
constitutes  the  ability  of  getting  at  the  real  root  of 
anything,  he  would  not  have  understood  or  believed  it. 

As  it  neared  his  breakfast-time  the  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness left  him,  and  with  increasing  eagerness  to  begin 
his  journey  he  hurried  back  through  the  village  to  his 
cottage. 

Punctually  at  the  hour  Ryan  arrived  at  the  door. 


THE   CELIBATE  119 

whipping  up  his  horse  over  the  last  piece  of  ground 
up  to  the  house  as  though  there  were  but  five  minutes 
to  spare.  Then  the  tin  trunk  was  tied  with  rope  to 
the  driver's  footboard,  and  over  it  he  swung  his  legs. 
The  few  small  things  were  placed  in  the  well  of  the 
vehicle,  and,  mounting  the  car,  Father  Michael 
wrapped  a  large  rug  about  him.  Since  his  breakfast 
the  day,  so  gloriously  begun,  had  broken  into  a  mist 
of  rain  and  the  precaution  of  covering  was  necessary. 

At  the  last  moment  Mrs.  McGrath  hurried  to  the 
door  with  a  small  parcel  of  sandwiches  and  thrust 
them  into  his  hand.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes, 
for  she  was  a  woman  with  the  uncommon  reputation 
of  never  having  been  known  to  weep  in  her  life.  But 
a  keen  observer  might  have  seen  a  certain  tightness 
about  her  lips  and  an  unaccountable  shifting  of  her 
eyes,  as  though  she  were  worried  by  the  presence  of 
some  contingency. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Father  Michael  had 
been  away  since  he  had  come  to  Rathmore,  and  she 
had  not  realized  until  then  that,  attending  to  his 
wants,  keeping  his  rooms  tidy  and  obeying  his  com- 
mands had  made  up  the  whole  of  her  life  since  the 
death  of  her  husband. 

"  Good-bye,  Father,  and  God  bless  ye,"  she  said  in 
rather  a  strained  voice,  as  Ryan  turned  the  horse's 
head  towards  the  long  road  that  led  to  Anesk.  Then 
without  looking  in  his  direction  again,  she  went 
straight  back  into  the  house  and  began  doing  things 
in  the  kitchen  with  more  noise  than  might  have 
seemed  absolutely  necessary. 

As  he  drove  past  the  last  of  the  few  cottages  at  the 


120  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

end  of  the  main  street  of  the  village,  children  and 
parents  came  to  the  doors  and  stood  there  open- 
mouthed.  One  of  the  women  ventured  to  call  out 
after  him,  "  God  bless  ye,  Father."  And  the  others, 
who  kept  silence  out  of  respect,  repeated  the  blessing 
under  their  breaths. 

In  another  moment  they  had  turned  off  on  to  the 
straight  road  to  Anesk,  and  with  something  very  like 
a  lump  in  his  throat  Father  Michael  took  one  last 
look  at  the  clustering,  grey  roofs  of  the  little  village 
of  Rathmore.  Then  he  leant  back  in  his  seat  to 
look  forward  towards  the  direction  in  which  he  was 
going. 

They  had  barely  covered  half-a-mile  of  the  road 
when  Ryan  pulled  up  his  horse  to  a  standstill.  Three 
large  cows  were  obstructing  the  way  with  no  apparent 
sign  of  an  owner. 

"Yirra,  what  the  diwle.?"  he  began,  and  at  that 
moment  Httle  Annie  Foley  came  out  of  a  field  carrying 
her  fragile  willow  switch  in  her  hand. 

"Take  thim  starvin'  cows  out  of  the  road,  will 
ye .'' "  Ryan  yelled,  though  she  was  within  but  a  few 
yards  of  them. 

She  made  no  sign  of  having  heard  him  beyond 
the  fact  that  she  collected  the  animals  into  a  small 
space  which  the  approach  to  the  gate  had  made, 
and,  before  Father  Michael  could  say  a  word  to  her, 
Ryan  had  lashed  his  horse  and  they  were  bowling  on 
again  to  Anesk. 

Directly  they  had  passed  her  Father  Michael  looked 
back. 

She  was  still  standing  gazing  in  the  direction  of 


THE   CELIBATE  121 

the  car.  Her  small  figure  looked  more  elfish  than 
ever  as  the  distance  between  them  increased,  and  the 
last  thing  he  noticed,  as  they  turned  a  sharp  comer, 
was  the  sudden  flash  of  burnished  copper  as  the  wind 
caught  and  tossed  her  red  hair. 


BOOK  II 

THE  MAN. 


"To  enter  the  priesthood  in  a  becoming  manner, 
certain  qualifications  are  required.  Of  these,  some  are 
physical,  such  as  soundness  of  body,  freedom  from 
such  bodily  defects  or  diseases  as  unfit  one  for  dis- 
charging the  duties  of  that  sublime  state." — Rev. 
Fekbeol  Gieakdy,  C.  SS.  R. 

"  For  the  scripture  saith:  Thou  shall  not  muzzle 
the  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn:  and  the  labourer  is 
worthy  of  hit  reward." — 1  Tim.  v.  18  (translated 
from  the  Latin  Vulgate). 

"Why  dost  thou  anoint  a  stone,  and  pour  gifts 
upon  the  ground?  Cease  from  vain  oblations— 
rather  anoint  me  while  I  live." — Anacbeon. 

"  Oh,  Thou  who  did'st  with  pitfall  and  with  gin 
Beset  the  road  I  was  to  wander  in; 
.  Thou  wilt  not  with  Predestined  Evil  round 
Enmesh,  and  then  impute  my  Fall  to  Sin ! " 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam, 


CHAPTER   XII 

At  the  violent  swaying  from  side  to  side,  as  the 
train  rushed  over  the  many  points  that  are  inter- 
woven through  the  main  lines  of  the  railway  track 
outside  London,  Father  Michael  awoke  with  a  start. 

Seeing  that  he  had  opened  his  eyes,  a  travelling 
companion,  with  whom  he  had  chatted  on  the  boat, 
leant  forward. 

"We're  in  the  suburbs  of  London  now,"  he  said, 
and  Father  Michael  turned  quickly  to  look  out  of 
the  window. 

So  this  was  London.  This  blue  haze  with  its  sea 
of  roofs  and  forests  of  chimney-pots.  He  had  seen 
Cork,  he  had  been  to  Dublin ;  but  this  was  London, 
where  the  greatest  mass  of  people  in  the  world  were 
collected  together  and  lived — a  greater  number  of 
people  than  that  which  comprised  the  whole  popula- 
tion of  Ireland.  This  air  of  smoke  was  what  they 
breathed.  There  was  scarcely  a  tree  in  sight.  As 
they  swung  through  Willesden  Junction  he  leant  back 
again  in  his  seat  and  looked  across  at  the  man  who  had 
informed  him  of  their  approach  to  the  city. 

"  This  is  all  London?  "  he  asked. 

"Every  bit  of  it.  Suburbs,  of  course,  but  it's  all 
London." 

Then  he  proceeded  to  Impart  a  lot  of  useless  infor- 
mation concerning  the  growth  of  the  city,  to  which 
Father  Michael  listened  patiently,  interpolating  a 
remark  here  and  there  to  show  that  he  was  attending. 

125 


126  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

At  last  with  an  Internal  grating  of  brakes  the  train 
slowed  up  into  Euston  Station.  Father  Michael 
stood  up  to  get  the  small  things  from  the  rack  above 
his  head. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  to  get  to  your  destina- 
tion.?" asked  his  companion  with  a  curiosity  that 
showed  little  difference  to  that  displayed  by  Mrs. 
Ryan  on  the  day  before  his  departure. 

"I  do.  Oh,  I  do,"  he  said,  and  he  stepped  out  hur- 
riedly from  the  carriage  to  look  after  his  luggage  in 
the  van.  It  did  not  take  long  to  identify  his  tin  box, 
upon  which — many  years  ago  it  seemed  then — ^Patsy 
the  farm-hand  had  painted  his  initials  in  black. 

He  was  just  turning  to  the  porter  who  had  followed 
him  to  notify  him  of  the  fact  that  it  was  amongst  the 
luggage  freshly  thrown  out  on  to  the  platform  when 
a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

He  looked  quickly  behind  him  to  find  a  tall  man 
smiling  into  his  face.  The  stranger  was  one  of  the 
first  young  men  wearing  a  beard  and  moustache  whom 
Father  Michael  had  seen  in  England.  It  gave  him 
almost  the  appearance  of  a  foreigner.  A  soft  felt  hat 
was  placed  carelessly  on  his  head  and  a  long,  thin 
overcoat  covered  completely  whatever  clothes  he 
might  be  wearing  underneath.  Seeing  that  he  still 
smiled  as  though  he  recognized  him  Father  Michael 
was  just  about  to  explain  that  there  was  evidently 
some  mistake,  when  a  deep  voice  that  seemed  to  issue 
from  the  very  depths  of  the  man's  chest,  said — 

"Ah,  shure  now,  Michael,  it's  no  good  pretending 
ye  don't  know  me,"  and  in  the  laugh  that  followed, 
the  priest  recognized  Maurice  Holland. 


THE  MAN  m 

"God  bless  us,'*  he  said  quite  seriously,  "is  that 
you,  Maurice?  " 

Then  they  both  laughed  and  shook  hands. 

It  was  just  approaching  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  as  Father  Michael  had  come  straight  on 
the  night  before  by  the  mail  train,  their  first  con- 
sideration was  to  get  back  to  Holland's  studio  and 
have  breakfast. 

The  drive  back  to  Regent  Street,  where  the  studio 
was  situated  on  the  top  floor  of  a  house  south-west 
of  Vigo  Street  did  not  take  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes. The  shops  had  not  opened  as  yet,  so  that 
Father  Michael  did  not  see  as  much  of  the  business 
of  the  great  city  as  he  had  expected. 

They  mounted  the  three  flights  of  stairs  up  to  the 
top  floor,  each  taking  a  handle  of  the  tin  trunk.  It 
was  not  a  httle  heavy  as  Father  Michael,  anticipating 
the  remote  possibilities  of  some  idle  moments,  had 
packed  in  it  some  of  his  philosophical  books.  Now 
books  on  philosophy  are  no  more  light  carrying  than 
they  are  light  reading,  and  when  they  reached  the 
top  of  the  stairs  the  pain  in  his  spine  had  driven 
the  blood  out  of  his  face  so  that  his  cheeks  were 
white  and  his  lips  twitched. 

"  Bit  of  a  pull,  isn't  it  ?  "  Holland  remarked.  "  My 
Lord !     Why  you  look  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  That's  my  spine.  I  think  it  must  be  rather  weak. 
I've  been  after  suffering  a  good  deal  with  it  lately." 

"Spine?"  Holland  screwed  up  his  lips  and 
whistled.  Then,  picking  up  the  tin  trunk  with  both 
hands,  he  kicked  open  the  door  of  the  studio,  and 
Father  Michael  followed  him  into  the  room. 


128  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

It  was  a  fine,  big,  capacious  studio  with  a  roof- 
window  that  caught  all  the  north-east  light  that  there 
was  to  be  had.  At  each  end  of  it,  where  the  ceiling 
sloped  downwards,  a  curtain  of  some  cheap  Oriental 
material  was  hung  to  partition  off  the  somewhat 
cramped  space.  One  of  these  portions  Holland  had 
turned  into  a  bedroom,  and  in  the  other  he  stowed 
his  collection  of  used  and  unused  canvases — failures 
and  the  untouched  hopes  of  success. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  rough  sketches  In  colours 
and  black  and  white — studies  for  illustration  which 
had  never  been  finished.  It  is  in  these  that  the  char- 
acter of  an  artist  is  to  be  seen,  for  no  man  in  any 
other  profession  hangs  his  efforts  upon  his  walls  in 
full  view  of  every  visitor.  Yet  it  is  by  these  alone 
that  the  artist  learns  his  craft,  and  accordingly 
they  are  given  their  prominence  in  his  scheme  of 
decoration. 

An  easel,  a  model's  throne  and  a  strip  of  Eastern 
carpet  to  cover  the  bare  boards,  completed  the  furni- 
ture, except  that  in  one  comer  of  the  room  was  a 
small  deal  table  laid  with  a  well-patched  white 
cloth.  Under  the  table  had  been  pushed  two  kitchen 
chairs. 

Father  Michael  stood  still  and  looked  about  him. 

"Is  this  where  you  live,  Maurice.'"'  he  asked. 

Holland  shoved  the  tin  box  behind  the  curtain  and 
stood  up.  There  was  a  look  of  surprise — sensitive 
surprise — on  his  face. 

"Where  I  hve.?  Of  course  it  Is.  Did  you  think 
I'd  got  another  residence  in  Park  Lane.'"'  Then  he 
laughed. 


THE  MAN  129 

"  Come  in  here,"  he  pulled  the  curtain  aside,  "  and 
get  a  wash ;  I'll  ring  for  breakfast." 

The  basin  was  small  and  the  soap  well-worn,  so 
that  Father  Michael  did  not  take  long  over  his  ablu- 
tions. When  he  came  back  into  the  room  again 
Holland  was  taking  off  his  long  overceat.  Under- 
neath it  was  a  thin,  shabby  jacket,  which  had  prob- 
ably once  belonged  to  a  suit  of  pyjamas,  and  Father 
Michael  suddenly  understood  the  need  for  his  outdoor 
attire. 

An  elderly  woman  of  the  charing  type  answered 
the  bell  which  Holland  had  rung  for  breakfast.  She 
brought  in  two  plates  with  tin  covers  over  them. 
Underneath  each  were  two  rashers  of  bacon  and  an 
egg  that  had  been  fried  to  a  cinder^  But  to  Father 
Michael,  who  was  almost  weak  with  hunger,  and 
Holland,  who  had  never  had  anything  different  for 
the  last  two  years,  the  condition  of  the  cooking  passed 
unnoticed. 

As  he  poured  out  the  tea  which  had  followed,  Hol- 
land leant  back  in  his  chair,  tilting  it  backwards, 
and  looked  across  at  his  visitor. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I'd  have  known  you  at  a  conven- 
tion.    I  would  indeed." 

Father  Michael  smiled.  Holland's  brogue  had  been 
so  curiously  disfigured  by  his  English  surroundings. 

"  You  don't  think  I've  changed  ?  " 

"  Not  in  appearance." 

"  Ah,  appearances  aren't  everything." 

"  Except  when  you  want  to  sell  a  picture." 

"Oh,  is  that  the  way.?" 

Holland  looked  up  from  his  plate. 


130  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

"What  do  you  think  people  buy  pictures  for?"  he 
asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  copy  of  Rubens  that  we 
have  in  the  chapel  at  Rathmore  always  seems  very 
inspiring  to  me.  That's  about  the  only  good  picture 
I've  seen." 

*'  But  I'm  not  talking  about  masters.  People  paint 
now-a-days  to  get  something  to  eat.  The  picture 
you  least  hke  to  paint  the  dealers  want  four  copies 
of.  So  you  paint  these  four,  and  when  you  receive 
the  money  for  them  you  begin  to  get  over  the  feeling 
of  wishing  you  were  dead." 

"But  what  sort  of  picture  do  they  want.?  And 
why  should  you  wish  that  you  were  dead  ?  " 

Accepting  the  hospitality  of  his  friend  he  felt  called 
upon  to  inquire  about  these  things,  though  they  did 
not  really  interest  him. 

"  The  sort  of  picture  they  want  is  the  beautiful  girl 
in  the  beautiful  pose,  with  a  beautiful  background  of 
passion-flowers.  Why  you  wish  you  were  dead,  is 
because  there's  not  a  daub  of  life  in  her  from  the 
chaplet  round  her  head  to  the  sandals  on  her  feet. 
And  when  you  see  four  copies  of  her  standing  round 
on  the  floor  you  feel  as  if  she  were  trying  to  throttle 
you." 

Father  Michael  listened  intently  to  all  that  his 
friend  was  saying,  and  when  Holland  looked  up  to 
find  his  grey,  serious  eyes  taking  it  all  in  such  a  vein 
he  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  Oh,  but  that's  not  the  only  side  to  the  business," 
he  added  with  sudden  earnestness.  "  There  is 
another  side." 


THE  MAN  131 

He  rose  impulsively  from  the  table  and  crossed  to 
the  easel.  The  picture  standing  on  its  rest  was 
covered  with  a  thin,  green  baize  cloth. 

"  There  is  this  side,"  he  lifted  up  the  material  and 
stood  aside,  so  that  the  priest  could  the  more  plainly 
and  to  advantage  see  the  picture  which  he  had 
unveiled. 

Without  doubt  there  was  the  touch  of  genius  in  its 
conception  and  execution.  Just  the  light,  passing 
touch  of  genius,  which  is  more  to  be  appreciated  in 
its  promise  of  greater  things  than  in  its  immediate 
presence. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  girl.  She  was  by  no  means 
beautiful,  not  even  pretty.  A  mass  of  brown  hair 
coiled  untidily,  but  with  naturally  graceful  curves 
about  her  head.  In  her  eyes  lay  an  expression  that 
seemed  to  take  in  all  her  surroundings,  whatever  they 
might  be.  Father  Michael  felt  that  they  included 
him,  but  him  alone.  Her  mouth,  neither  large  nor 
small,  looked  warm  with  the  moving  life  that  she  all 
but  possessed,  and  her  shoulders  and  breast,  though 
undraped  were  toned  down  by  heavy  shadows  into  a 
mere  suggestion  of  their  outline. 

"  I've  called  it  *  The  Inevitable,' "  said  Maurice 
simply. 

Father  Michael  found  his  eyes  clinging  to  it,  yet  all 
his  inborn  idea  of  things — his  repugnance  to  those 
obvious  facts  of  which  too  suddenly  he  had  realized 
that  this  was  one — made  him  wish  not  to  see  it  any 
longer. 

"  I  suppose  it's  very  good,"  he  said  awkwardly,  and 
he  felt  that  the  blood  was  rising  in  his  checks.     "  But 


182  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

I  never  look  at  that  sort  of  picture.  I  must  confess  I 
don't  see  any  necessity  for  it." 

Maurice  looked  at  him  quickly,  almost  incredulously. 
Then  he  let  the  cloth  fall  back  to  the  picture  again. 

"  One  man's  meat,  another  man's  poison,"  he  said  as 
he  came  back  to  the  table  to  finish  his  tea. 

It  was  all  he  said,  and  for  a  moment  or  so  while  he 
rolled  a  cigarette  the  position  was  somewhat  strained. 

When  two  men  come  upon  an  essential  difference 
that  exists  between  them,  no  matter  whether  it  be  one 
of  principle  or  of  conviction,  they  invariably  part 
company.  Tacitly,  silently  and  irrevocably  they 
drift  out  of  their  former  connections,  just  as  Father 
Michael  and  Maurice  HoUand  had  done  at  Maynooth, 
and  as  they  were  about  to  do  now. 

With  women,  such  matters  are  conducted  on  abso- 
lutely different  lines.  There  is  no  tacit  separation 
with  them.  On  the  other  hand,  they  meet  just  as 
frequently — not  quite  as  intimately  perhaps — ^but 
with  an  open  semblance  of  mutual  friendship. 

The  moment  that  Holland  realized  the  vast  gulf  that 
lay  between  his  sympathies  and  those  of  his  com- 
panion, the  friendship,  which  circumstances  had 
endeavoured  to  renew  between  them,  found  in  his 
mind   no   more   ground   for   existence. 

And  with  Father  Michael,  directly  he  saw  the 
worldly  change  in  the  mind  of  his  old  friend,  all  possi- 
bility of  thinking  that  they  could  renew  their  com- 
radeship passed  out  of  his  thoughts.  He  felt  that  he 
had  nothing  in  common  with  a  man  who  could  paint 
the  picture  of  a  woman  such  as  that  was  and  call  it 
**The  Inevitable."     And   similarly,  Holland   deter- 


THE  MAN  133 

mined  that,  with  one  who  could  treat  his  work — the 
work  into  which  he  had  put  all  his  ill-fed  energy — 
in  such  a  way  as  Father  Michael  had  done,  all  further 
friendship  was  out  of  the  question. 

They  may  not  have  been  aware  of  each  other's 
thoughts,  but  both  of  them  felt  the  strain  of  the 
silence  and  Maurice  did  his  best  to  break  it.  He  took 
circumstance  by  the  hand,  and  spoke  on  impulse. 

**0f  course  I  fully  appreciate  your — ^your  prin- 
ciples. You  don't  look  at  those  things.  Naturally, 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  For  example — 
St.  Aloysius.  It  was  my  mistake.  I  didn't  intend 
to  disturb  your  mind.  -I  was  only  labouring  undey 
the  misapprehension  that  having  looked  me  up  you'd 
like  to  see  what  I've  done  with  myself.  That's  what 
I've  done.  But  of  course  I  should  have  remembered 
that  you  wouldn't  understand  it." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  it,"  Father  Michael  said  bitterly. 
*'  I  quite  understand  all  that  it  means  to  convey,  and 
all  the  effect  it  will  have  upon  those  people  who  make 
a  point  of  seeing  such  things.  But  as  I  said  before, 
I  don't  approve  of  them.  There's  quite  enough  mis- 
directed inclination  in  this  world  without  needing 
superfluous  things  of  that  kind  to  encourage  it.  I 
don't  say,  I'm  not  so  narrow-minded  as  to  say,  that 
the  world  would  be  any  better  than  it  is  without  those 
incentive  objects;  but  I  really  think,  in  fact  I  know 
that  I'm  right  in  saying,  that  with  them  it  is  worse 
than  God  meant  it  to  be.  I'm  quite  aware  that  that's 
a  fine  distinction,  but  to  my  mind  it  counts." 

All  through  this  speech  Holland  had  been  pulling 
strenuously  at  his  ill-made  cigarette,  taking  impulsive 


1S4  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

breaths  in  the  anticipation  of  speaking,  of  refuting 
what  Father  Michael  was  saying.  But  until  the 
priest  had  reached  the  end  of  his  last  sentence  he 
could  not  find  an  opportunity.  When  he  did  he 
launched  forth  with  all  the  inflammable  vigour  of  his 
nationality  which,  combined  with  the  sense  of  in- 
justice done  to  the  nobihty  of  his  profession,  made 
his  words  more  bitter  than  they  might  otherwise  have 
been. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  superfluous  things  of  that 
kind?"  he  asked.  "What  do  you  mean  by  your 
expression,  incentive  objects?" 

Father  Michael  rose  a  little  nervously  from  the  table. 
He  had  a  neurotic  repugnance  to  discussions  of  this 
kind.  But  now  he  felt  that  he  could  not  well  get 
out  of  it,  and  so  he  endeavoured  to  keep  his  excit- 
ability under  control  by  walking  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  I  think  anything,  either  in  a  book  or  in  a  picture, 
which  inclines  one's  thoughts  to  the  sensual  and  more 
bestial  side  of  life,  is  an  incentive  object  of  a 
dangerous  kind." 

Holland  threw  his  cigarette  out  of  the  open  roof 
window  and  laughed.  But  his  laugh  stopped  sud- 
denly and  he  became  equally  serious. 

"Why,  Good  Lord!"  he  began,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  think  a  statement  preposterous.  "What  on 
earth  is  there  in  my  picture  that  is  sensual.?  The 
head  and  shoulders  of  a  girl." 

"  A  little  more  than  the  shoulders,"  Father  Michael 
interrupted. 

Holland  looked  at  him  acutely  when  he  said  that. 


THE  MAN'  135 

He  suddenly  saw  the  full  state  of  morbidity  into 
which  the  priest's  mind  had  grown. 

In  one  moment  the  whole  structure  of  Father 
Michael's  unnatural  development  stood  out  before 
him  with  so  clear  a  distinctness  that,  without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  he  could  put  his  finger  upon  the 
weak  spot  of  the  entire  construction. 

Here  was  a  man,  very  man  of  very  man,  but  not 
very  God  of  very  God,  endeavouring  to  emulate  the 
example  of  the  one  Man  who  was  both.  A  man  who, 
because  he  was  only  human,  could  see  in  the  harlot's 
anointment  with  spikenard — very  precious — no  more 
than  the  stain  on  the  hands  which  broke  the  box  upon 
his  head  and  the  source  from  which  the  money  to  buy 
that  box  had  been  obtained.  With  other  saints 
before  him  he  would  have  complained  that  it  might 
have  been  sold  for  much  and  given  to  the  poor.  But 
of  her  humanity  and  her  penitence,  which  alone  the 
Man  of  God  had  seen,  he,  with  those  other  saints 
before  him,  would  have  seen  nothing. 

And  so  it  was  in  a  way  with  the  picture.  Very  man 
of  very  man,  but  with  every  natural,  compensating 
instinct  undeveloped,  his  eyes  in  their  morbidity  had 
rushed  first  to  the  outline  of  her  figure,  which  for 
the  very  reason  of  hating  insinuating  sensationalism 
the  artist  had  hidden  away  in  shadow  that  it  might 
be  inferred  rather  than  seen.  To  that  unaccentuated 
portion  of  the  picture  his  thoughts  had  flown,  and  all 
which  was  human,  all  that  into  which  Holland  had 
put  the  life  that  a  continual  absence  of  comforts  had 
taught  him,  the  priest  had  passed  by  unnoticed. 

His    mind    was    unbalanced.     His    weights    were 


136  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

wrong.  He  had  omitted  the  agate  of  truth  from  his 
power  of  reckoning,  and  his  scales  hung  unevenly 
upon  the  corruptible  metal  of  asceticism. 

"Yes,"  Holland  replied  quietly,  "there  was  a  little 
more  than  the  shoulders." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

They  had  been  talking  for  about  an  hour  after  the 
breakfast  was  over,  when  Holland  looked  suddenly  at 
his  watch. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  **it's  eleven  o'clock.  My  model's 
coming  at  a  quarter-past.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  to  go  out." 

"Oh,  I  intended,"  said  Father  Michael.  "I  want 
to  see  as  much  as  I  can  while  I'm  here.  You  see,  I 
start  to-morrow  directly  after  two." 

*'Well,  where  are  you  going?" 

The  priest  told  him  of  the  different  places  that  he 
meant  to  visit,  and  Holland  gave  him  a  sheaf  of 
directions  that  he  was  to  follow. 

As  he  was  putting  on  his  hat  Father  Michael  turned 
to  his  companion. 

"I'd  thought  you  would  be  married,  Maurice,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile. 

Holland  looked  up  from  the  palette  on  to  which  he 
had  already  begun  to  squeeze  his  paints. 

"  Married !  What  on  earth  do  you  think  I  could 
marry  on.''  Why,  I  have  to  go  without  a  meal  some- 
times to  pay  my  rent.  You  don't  imagine  that  I 
could  ask  any  woman  to  share  that,  do  you  ?  " 

At  any  other  time  and  to  any  other  man — seeing 
the  reason  for  which  he  had  left  Maynooth — ^Father 
Michael  would  have  replied  that  it  was  better  to 
want  in  this  life  than  be  begging  for  salvation  in 
the  next. 

137 


138  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

But  Holland's  Individuality  was  strong  enough  to 
repel  that  answer,  and  so  he  merely  said — "  I  suppose 
you  couldn't." 

And  that  was  the  second  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
put  aside  his  principles. 

Just  as  he  reached  it,  there  was  a  sharp  knock  on 
the  door.  Maurice  called  out  the  order  to  come  in, 
and,  as  the  priest  stepped  aside,  a  young  girl  entered 
the  room ;  the  young  girl  who,  instinct  told  him,  was 
the  model. 

Without  looking  at  her  Father  Michael  nodded 
good-bye  to  his  friend  and  hurriedly  left  the  studio, 
closing  the  door  quietly  after  him. 

Once  down-stairs  and  out  in  the  midst  o.'  strangers 
passing  to  and  fro,  all  intent  upon  their  errands 
which  were  just  as  strange  to  him  as  themselves, 
Father  Michael  felt  an  unutterable  sense  of  loneliness. 
Only  that  the  next  day  would  bring  him  into  an 
atmosphere  more  congenial  to  the  state  of  his  mind, 
he  would  have  wished  that  he  had  never  left  Rathmore 
at  all. 

Maurice  Holland  from  whom  he  had  just  parted, 
except  that  his  face  and  voice  were  more  or  less 
familiar — and  even  they  had  undergone  a  change — 
was  as  much  a  stranger  to  him  as  all  the  people  who 
hurried  by  his  side.  The  artist's  mind,  as  he  saw  it, 
had  gone  after  the  way  of  all  flesh.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  think  that  that  was  where  all  life  led  to, 
all  life  that  had  not  for  its  salvation  or  resource  the 
almightiness  of  the  Holy  Church. 

■Within  the  last  few  months  It  seemed  to  him  that 
fte  W9.S  coming  across  innumerable  examples  of  that 


THE  MAN  139 

side  of  nature,  whereas  In  reality  he  had  met  but  one. 
The  rest  had  been  imagined. 

With  a  sigh  of  unreasonable  depression  he  turned 
in  the  direction  he  had  been  given  to  follow  if  he 
wished  to  go  to  the  British  Museum.  He  was  utterly 
unaware  that,  in  his  old-fashioned  silk  hat  and  the 
poorly-fitting  clerical  clothes,  which  three  years  ago 
had  been  made  for  him  by  an  incompetent  tailor  in 
Waterford,  he  was  an  object  of  curiosity,  sometimes 
of  amusement  to  the  many  well-dressed  habitues  of 
Regent  Street. 

With  a  great  deal  of  nervous  hesitation  and  timidity 
of  the  traffic  he  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  where  the  greater  number  of  people  seemed  to 
be  collected  and  the  shop  fronts  looked  more  inviting 
with  the  sunshine  that  was  filling  their  windows. 

The  kaleidoscopic  effect  of  the  various  coloured 
dresses,  the  innumerable  parasols  of  innumerable 
shades  and  textures  began  slowly  to  work  their  cure 
upon  his  depression.  After  he  had  looked  into  two 
or  three  shop  windows  and  faced  again  the  crowd  of 
colours,  he  felt  his  spirits  beginning  gradually  to 
rise  ;  and  with  the  incessant  sounds  of  laughter  and 
chattering  that  fell  continually  on  his  ears  his  sense 
of  loneliness  vanished. 

There  was  not  one  individual  face  of  all  the  men 
and  women  who  passed  by  his  side  of  which  he  took 
any  particular  notice.  Like  a  boy  who,  in  all  the 
callowness  of  his  youth,  goes  to  his  first  dance  and 
fails  in  his  excitement  to  recognize  the  feature  of  the 
partners  to  whom  he  has  been  introduced.  Father 
IVIichael  was  bewildered  by  the  many  faces,  the  varied 


140  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

colours  and  the  realization  that  in  all  that  crowd  there 
was  not  one  who  had  any  knowledge  of  the  interests 
that  dominated  his  life. 

Not  one  individual  face?     There  was  just  one. 

Out  of  the  many  people  advancing  towards  him 
accompanied  by  a  man  some  few  years  older  than 
herself,  a  young  girl  made  her  way  into  an  open  space 
where  progress  would  be  less  difficult. 

The  first  thing  which  drew  his  attention  to  her 
appearance  was  the  glint  of  light  that  touched  the 
coppered  redness  of  her  hair.  The  next  moment  his 
gaze  was  resting  curiously  on  her  face. 

There  he  saw  a  resemblance.  To  whom,  he  had  not 
the  time  to  trace.  She  was  not  what  is  commonly 
called  pretty.  That  attribute  as  applied  to  her 
would  have  been  insignificant.  Yet  she  was  not  hand- 
some, for  there  was  no  distinction  of  shape  about  her 
features.  In  a  casual  glance,  one  could  not  have 
thought  her  more  than  uncommon. 

But  below  that  all,  deeper  than  the  casual  glance 
can  reach,  there  was  an  attraction  so  subtle  that  it 
could  be  seen  only  when  one  looked  closely  and 
straightly  into  her  eyes.  She  was  a  woman,  and  in 
her  eyes  that  word  was  to  be  seen,  written  with  all 
the  little  differences  from  the  other  sex,  all  the  subtle 
allurements  and  all  the  fascinations  which  that  word 
in  its  truest  sense  can  hold  for  the  truest  instinct  of 
a  man. 

Above  all  little,  petty  characteristics,  such  as  the 
love  of  dress,  the  art  of  posing,  the  power  of  decep- 
tion and  the  artfulness  of  tact,  which  belong  to  men 
just  as  well  but  are  supposed  to  indicate  the  essential 


THE  MAN  141 

nature  of  the  feminine  mind;  above  all  these  she  was 
the  real  woman,  needing  the  cruel  strength  of  a  man 
yet  capable  of  ruling  him  with  her  eyes  ;  craving  to  be 
his  most  abject  slave,  yet  wishing  him  to  think  that 
she  was  mistress  over  all. 

As  she  approached  Father  Michael  she  looked  up 
at  her  companion,  and  he  heard  her  say — 

"No,  I  want  to  go  to  the  Globe.  You  can't  per- 
suade me;  I'm  a  woman,  you  know."  And  then  she 
laughed  light-heartedly. 

It  was  with  the  fascination  of  her  laugh  still  alive  in 
her  face,  with  all  the  intimacy  of  her  expression  still 
alight  in  her  eyes,  that  she  turned  as  they  came  level 
with  the  priest. 

Their  eyes  met — full  as  eyes  do  meet  when  the  gaze 
is  meant  for  words — and  for  one  moment  as  brief  as 
the  passing  of  a  ray  of  light.  Father  Michael's  were 
held  within  the  spell  of  her  expression. 

The  next  moment  she  had  passed. 

In  the  thoughts  that  hurried  each  other  through  his 
mind  he  did  not  wait  to  realize  that  her  look  and  her 
laugh  had  not  been  meant  for  him.  He  only  felt 
that  on  the  instant  in  which  their  eyes  had  met  he  had 
received  all  that  the  other  man  had  lost ;  that  in  that 
moment  he  knew  her  as  well  as,  if  not  better  than,  her 
companion — the  first  woman  in  his  life  whom,  for 
however  short  a  time,  he  had  really  understood. 

He  did  not  even  offer,  in  the  sudden  bewilderment  of 
his  mind,  to  resist  the  impulse  to  look  after  her. 
But  when  he  turned  his  head  he  found  that  she  had 
no  thought  of  doing  likewise  and,  as  soon  as  he  had 
lost  sight  of  her  amongst  the  throng  of  people,  he 


14«  THE  APPLE   OR  EDEN 

went  on  slowly  in  the  direction  that  he  had  been 
pursuing. 

But  the  losing  sight  of  her  did  not,  as  would  have 
been  the  case  with  the  majority  of  men  over  so  ephe- 
meral an  incident,  take  her  out  of  his  thoughts.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  remembrance  of  her  grew  more 
vivid  as  he  became  more  collected  and  the  ferment 
died  out  of  his  mind. 

In  the  first  place  he  found  the  connective  famili- 
arity which,  before  he  had  heard  her  speak,  he  had 
first  recognized  in  her  face.  The  thought  of  it 
brought  him  back  to  the  day  when  he  had  returned 
from  seeing  Father  Connelly  at  Ballysheen ;  and  with 
it  the  entire  incident  of  little  Annie  Foley  and  her 
three  cows  came  before  his  mind.  For  the  time  being 
he  was  thrown  back  into  his  old  life,  so  that  his 
present  surroundings  seemed  hke  phantoms  to  him  as 
he  walked  along  the  crowded  street. 

He  well  remembered  what  he  had  thought  about  on 
that  evening  when,  following  behind  her  as  she  drove 
her  lethargic,  ambling  cattle,  he  had  walked  on  into 
Rathmore.  From  noting  the  uncommonness  of  her 
face  he  recollected  that  he  had  fallen  to  wondering 
what  she  would  be  like  when  she  came  into  her  woman- 
hood. He  had  admitted  that  she  would  no  doubt  be 
unlike  the  indefinite  idea  that  he  had  always  formed 
of  her  sex;  that  there  was  a  depth — of  what  he 
could  not  fathom  at  the  time — ^but  still  a  depth  in 
her  expression  into  which  he  fancied  he  would  be 
impelled  to  look. 

Now  he  knew  what  she  would  be  like.  Now  he 
reahzed  what  that  depth  was.     He  had  seen  it  in  the 


THE  MAN  143 

girl  who  had  just  passed  by  his  side — ^the  girl  who  had 
just  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  in  whose  eyes  he  had 
seen  its  existence. 

It  was  not  that  in  features  she  was  the  exact  counter- 
part of  the  little  girl  in  Rathmore,  though  the  colour- 
ing of  her  skin  was  the  same  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
tone  of  difference  in  the  burnt  redness  of  their  hair. 
But  it  was  in  her  expression  that  the  full  force  of 
their  resemblance  lay. 

Those  things  in  hfe  which  the  eyes  of  the  little  child 
had  not  seen,  this  girl  had  beheld.  And  though  in 
her  there  was  still  the  expression  of  wistfulness  it  was 
mainly  subservient  to  that  realization  of  her  woman- 
hood, the  full  charm  of  which  had  stirred  Father 
Michael  to  depths  of  whose  existence  he  had  known 
nothing  until  then. 

With  a  multitude  of  thoughts  still  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  his  mind  he  found  himself  at  the  gates  of  the 
British  Museum,  but  when  once  inside  the  building  his 
thoughts  were  forced  into  another  channel.  The  im- 
mediate contact  with  such  objects  as  the  portions 
of  the  Temple  of  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  and  the 
frieze  of  the  great  city  of  Nineveh  were  too  real  and 
wonderful  in  his  mind  to  allow  of  introspection. 

For  an  hour  or  so  he  wandered  from  one  room  to 
another  in  a  state  of  almost  childish  amazement;  a 
childish  bewilderment  amazed  to  find  that  all  its  fairy 
stories,  however  implicity  they  had  been  accepted, 
were  once  really  true.  But  when  two  hours  had 
passed  and  he  was  seated  at  lunch — a  modem  lunch 
of  some  meat  extract — within  a  stone's  throw  of 
Egyptian  idols  some  thousands  of  years  old,  the  im- 


144  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

presslon  had  worn  itself  away  and  his  mind  recurred 
to  the  incident  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  morning. 

It  was  not  until  the  occurrence  of  later  events  that 
he  came  to  know  what  part  of  his  nature  had  answered 
to  her  look,  or  how  deeply  and  fervently  that  answer 
had  been  made.  He  only  knew  at  the  time  that  an 
idea  to  which  he  had  religiously  held  from  the  first 
moment  when  he  had  been  able  to  reason  for  himself 
had  been  wrenched  from  him.  He  consoled  himself 
with  the  thought  that  it  was  an  exceptional  case; 
that  she  was  one  woman  out  of  a  thousand,  and  he 
would  never  be  likely  to  see  another  who  could  fail  to 
answer  to  his  definition  of  the  sex — flippant,  uncon- 
vincing, good  or  bad  wives  to  the  men  who  should 
choose  to  marry  them. 

That  thought  had  no  sooner  taken  hold  of  his  mind 
than  he  remembered  what  he  had  heard  her  say. 

"You  can't  persuade  me,  I'm  a  woman." 

She  was  a  woman,  of  course,  but  not  of  the  con- 
ventional type.  It  was  her  mistake  to  think  that, 
because  he  knew  that  she  was  an  exception.  It  was 
on  that  account  that  she  had  attracted  his  notice. 
No  other  woman  had  ever  done  as  much. 

But  in  all  this  reasoning  introspection  Father 
Michael  lost  sight  of  the  one  principal  factor.  It 
was  here  that  the  corruptible  metal  of  asceticism  was 
giving  false  results  in  the  balancing  of  his  ideas; 
here,  at  this  small  prefatory  crisis,  that  he  should 
have  judged  himself  from  all  women,  not  all  women 
from  himself.  Had  the  question  that  Father  Con- 
nelly had  asked  him  in  a  conversation  of  theirs  some 
few  weeks  before  only  crossed  his  mind  at  that  moment 


THE  MAN  145 

he  might  probably  have  found  that  it  had  some  bear- 
mg  on  the  case.  Had  he  even  remembered  the  answer 
he  had  received  when  he  himself  had  put  the  same 
question  to  the  ploughman  on  the  road  to  Ballysheen ; 
but  it  never  entered  his  thoughts  that  the  two  things 
were  applicable — 

"  Shure  ye  may  read  and  read  until  ye're  little  more 
than  an  encyclopedia  of  knowledge — and,  mind  ye, 
that'll  take  the  rest  of  yeer  life — but  at  the  end  of 
that  time  ye  won't  be  able  to  tell  me  why  one  man  has 
a  fancy  for  a  woman  with  a  large  mouth  and 
another  takes  to  a  girl  because  of  the  colour  of  her 
hair." 

He  had  answered  that  it  was  because  there  was  a 
kink  in  their  natures,  and  it  had  been  proved  to  him, 
though  he  had  not  admitted  it  at  the  time,  that  it 
was  because  they  could  not  help  it. 

But  none  of  these  things  did  occur  to  him,  and  in 
the  blindness  of  his  fanatical  belief  in  the  righteous- 
ness of  his  vows  he  argued  that  this  girl  was  an 
exception  to  the  usual  insipidity  of  her  sex,  for  the 
simple  and  convincing  reason  that  he  had  found  her 
to  be  so.  He  would  still  have  protested  that  the 
words  of  Ezra  the  scribe  were  false  and  untrue  be- 
cause, as  far  as  his  experience  went,  he  had  seen  only 
one  woman  who  had  that  compelling  look  in  her  eyes 
to  draw  men  after  her.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him 
to  think  that  many  another  man  might  have  passed 
her  by  unnoticed,  whilst  their  whole  desire  would  have 
gone  out  to  a  woman  by  her  side,  to  whom  Father 
Michael  would  have  applied  his  customary  definition. 

There  was,  however,  yet  another  side  to  the  whole 


146  THE  APPLE  OP  EDEN 

matter  which  did  not  make  its  way  into  his  mind  until 
he  fancied  that  he  was  conqueror  of  the  situation. 
But  immediately  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  his 
original  ideas  of  the  power  of  women  as  a  sex  had  not 
been  shaken  by  the  incident  of  the  morning,  this  other 
point  of  view  came  suddenly  before  him  with  an  in- 
tensity that  for  a  moment  parched  his  throat  and 
made  the  food  he  was  eating  stale  and  nauseating. 
It  was  a  moment  of  purely  physical  nervousness,  for 
as  he  asked  himself  the  question  he  suddenly  realized 
how  close  he  had  been  to  the  complete  upheaval  of 
those  principles  with  which  he  had  bound  the  whole  of 
his  hfe  together. 

If  this  girl,  he  asked  himself,  did  possess  that  mag- 
netic power  over  the  minds  of  men — spoken  of  with 
reference  to  most  women  by  Ezra  the  scribe — what 
would  he.  Father  Michael,  feel  should  he  happen  to 
be  thrown  for  any  length  of  time  in  her  presence? 

What  would  other  men  feel? 

He  supposed  that  they  too  would  be  conscious  of 
that  disquieting  fascination  which  he  had  momen- 
tarily experienced  when  their  eyes  had  met. 

He  of  course  was  a  man,  but  then,  if  he  felt  a  com- 
pulsion beyond  his  power  to  resist,  there  was  always 
the  strength  of  the  Church  at  his  side,  and  in  that 
respect  he  was  different  from  the  rest. 

From  the  strength  which  that  thought  gave  him  he 
found  the  courage  to  declare  to  himself  that  in  many 
other  respects,  in  fact  in  all  other  respects — except  of 
course  the  mere  physical  functions  of  his  body — he 
was  diflPerent  from  any  man  who  had  not  been  the 
recipient  of  the  vocation  to  which  he  had  been  called. 


THE  MAN  147 

There  was  In  him,  a  priest  of  God,  and  an  avowed 
celibate,  faith  to  resist  the  attractions  of  a  woman 
which  even  he,  in  this  instance,  had  acknowledged  to 
himself  to  be  full  of  power. 

Having  once  taken  a  vow  in  God's  name  the 
Almighty  would  not  desert  him  in  the  hour  of  his 
need.  Of  that  he  felt  assured.  And  with  the  confi- 
dence of  this  self-assurance  all  thoughts  of  the  girl 
with  the  red  hair  left  his  mind,  as  he  imagined,  for 
ever. 

Taking  his  departure  from  the  British  Museum  he 
followed  Holland's  instructions  and  found  his  way  to 
the  new  Catholic  Cathedral  in  Westminster. 

There,  in  the  vast,  silent  solemnity  of  his  surround- 
ings, kneeling  with  his  hands  clasped  in  front  of  him, 
he  gained  a  greater  rest  to  his  mind  than  he  could 
have  imagined  possible  in  so  short  a  time;  and  feel- 
ing the  growth  of  the  Catholic  faith  in  the  magnifi- 
cence of  everything  around  him  he  prayed  fervently 
for  its  continuances 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Sitting  in  the  omnibus  that  brought  him  back  from 
Westminster  into  the  vicinity  of  Maurice  Holland's 
studio  Father  Michael  wondered  how  his  friend  in- 
tended that  they  should  spend  the  evening. 

For  himself  he  was  determined  that  their  discussion 
of  the  morning  should  not  be  repeated.  If  they 
stayed  in  the  studio  he  knew  that  that  was  bound  to 
happen,  and  accordingly  he  determined  that  they 
should  go  out.  But  where  to  and  with  what  object? 
A  theatre  or  any  other  such  place  of  amusement  had 
no  attraction  for  him.  He  had  never  been  to  a 
theatre,  and  knowing  that  the  pieces  played  in  them 
were  full  of  insinuations  of  that  very  side  of  life 
which  he  most  wished  to  avoid,  he  had  never  wanted 
to  see  one.  Yet,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  there  re- 
mained very  little  between  that  and  staying  in  the 
studio,  which  latter  prospect  he  put  entirely  out  of 
consideration. 

He  was  perfectly  certain  that  the  morahties  or  Im- 
moralities of  the  theatre  would  leave  his  mind  abso- 
lutely untroubled  by  imperative  ideas,  whereas  an 
argument  with  Maurice  might  fill  him  with  a  host  of 
degenerate  inclinations,  the  fighting  against  which 
would  exhaust  all  the  strength  of  mind  that  he  had 
gained  that  morning. 

The  casual  remembrance  of  that  episode  in  Regent 
Street  brought  with  it  a  wave  of  self-conscious  pride. 
After  all,  how  much  nearer  to  temptation  could  any 

148 


THE  MAN  149 

man  have  gone?  It  was  only  that  another  man 
would  have  followed  up  his  inclinations.  He  thought 
this  quite  vaguely,  because  he  could  not  for  a  moment 
have  suggested  how  it  could  have  been  accomplished. 
But  he,  though  certainly  he  had  looked  after  her,  had 
fought  it  down,  crushed  it  under  his  heel  in  the 
mental  conflict  that  had  ensued  after  her  passing.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  that  was  the  least  any  other 
man  could  have  done.  Yet  he  felt  sure  that,  if 
chance  should  ever  lead  him  to  meet  her  again,  that 
victory  which  had  nipped  his  inclination  in  the  bud 
would  be  a  shield  and  buckler  for  his  defence  and 
render  him  impervious  to  her  fascination. 

Then  he  remembered  what  she  had  said. 

"  No,  I  want  to  go  to  the  Globe." 

Possibly  that  was  a  place  of  amusement  where  she 
Was  going  that  night.  No  doubt  it  was  a  theatre. 
Why  should  he  not  go  there?  Then  he  could  prove 
to  himself  if  he  saw  her,  and  it  seemed  likely  that  he 
would,  that  he  had  conquered  what  in  the  suddenness 
of  the  moment  had  made  him  weak.  It  would  give 
him  strength  to  lean  upon.  And  so  he  decided  at 
least  to  ask  Maurice  where  the  Globe  was,  what  it 
was,  and  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  go  there 
that  evening. 

When  he  entered  the  studio  Holland  was  wiping 
his  brushes.  The  baize  cloth  was  covered  over  the 
picture  and  the  model  was  gone.  In  a  vague  way 
Father  Michael  had  hoped  that  she  would  still  be 
there,  as  with  this  new  armour  of  conviction  on  his 
back  he  felt  like  the  knight  in  allegory,  equipped 
against  all  temptation. 


160  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

He  had  thought  before,  when  he  had  read  the 
quotation  from  Esdras,  and  now  he  thought  again 
that  it  was  cowardly  to  shirk  temptation.  It  was  the 
common  lot  of  original  sin,  and  every  man  in  his  own 
way  must  meet  it  at  some  time  during  his  life.  It 
was  the  victory  over  temptation  as  well  as  the  method- 
ical doing  of  good  that  went  to  make  the  saint. 

*'Well,"  he  said,  laying  his  hat  on  one  of  the 
kitchen  chairs,  "I  don't  think  I've  been  wasting  my 
time." 

Holland  stood  his  brushes  in  an  old  jam  jar. 

"  Where  did  you  go  ?  " 

Father  Michael  described  the  details  of  his  day's 
excursion,  and  when  he  had  finished  his  eyes  wan- 
dered to  the  green  baize  cloth  hanging  over  the  easel. 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  asked.     "  How  have  you  got  on  ?  " 

**  Oh,  pretty  well.     Slowly,  but  well  enough." 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  took  back  my  decision  of 
this  morning.''" 

"What  decision?     What  do  you  mean.?" 

Father  Michael  coughed  nervously  and  eased  his 
collar  at  th^  throat. 

**I  mean  I'd  Hke  to  see  your  picture.  I'd  like  to 
see  how  you're  after  getting  on.  I  spoke  on  impulse 
this  morning.  Of  course  I  stiU  think  that  such 
pictures  are  dangerous  to  many  minds.  I  won't  give 
way  on  that  point.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  see  it." 

Holland  looked  up  keenly  at  the  priest,  never  taking 
his  eyes  off  him  even  at  the  end  of  his  sentence. 

"  Why .'' "  he  asked  pertinently.  "  Why  should  you 
see  it?     What  are  you?" 


THE  MAN  161 

Father  Michael's  lips  twitched  sensitively.  He  half 
realized  that  the  object  of  his  request  had  been  mis- 
understood, and  that  in  misunderstanding  it  Holland 
had  framed  a  poor  impression  of  him.  He  knew  in 
his  heart  that  he  had  never  meant  to  be  small-minded. 

*'  What  are  you  ? "  Holland  asked  again,  intent 
upon  getting  an  answer  which  the  priest  seemed  dis- 
inclined to  give. 

"I'm  a  priest.  That  sort  of  thing  has  nothing  to 
do  with  me.  It  doesn't  aifect  me  as  it  would  other 
men.  I  should  like  to  see  your  work.  It  was  selfish 
of  me  this  morning  not  to  look  at  it." 

Holland  did  not  move  a  step  nearer  to  the  easel.  He 
stayed  in  precisely  the  same  attitude  as  when  he  had 
asked  the  question. 

"  You're  a  priest,"  he  repeated,  "  a  celibate.  That 
sort  of  thing  doesn't  affect  you  as  it  does  other  men. 
Your  instincts  are  different.  Are  you  hungry,  by 
the  way  ?  "  He  added  the  question  to  his  sentence  in 
the  same  breath. 

"  I  am  rather.     Why  .?  " 

"Well,  let's  come  out  and  gee  dinner  with  the  rest 
of  the  world." 


CHAPTER   XV 

The  town  was  just  beginning  to  be  lighted  when  Hol- 
land took  his  friend  down  through  Piccadilly  and 
the  Ha3Tnarket  into  the  Strand,  pointing  out  to  him 
the  various  places  of  interest  as  they  passed.  The 
subject  of  the  picture  was  not  referred  to  by  either 
of  them  again  and,  deceived  by  the  lighter  tone  of  his 
companion's  voice,  Father  Michael  was  beginning  to 
forget  his  previous  sensitiveness. 

They  made  their  way  to  a  cheap  little  restaurant 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  theatres  where,  having 
hung  up  their  hats  and  selected  a  table,  they  sat 
down,  Holland  consulting  the  bill  of  fare  in  the  hope 
of  combining  cheapness  with  hospitality. 

He  was  just  wondering  whether  at  least  it  would 
be  better  to  ask  if  Father  Michael  would  take  wine. 
A  small  bottle  of  Beaune,  if  he  took  but  little  of  it, 
would  easily  serve  them  both,  and  was  just  within  the 
radius  of  the  limitations  of  his  pocket.  The  wine  list 
was  open  in  his  hand  when  the  priest  leant  across  the 
table. 

"  Don't  go  in  for  anything  extraordinary,"  he  said. 
The  brightly-lighted  restaurant  suggested  un- 
heard-of dishes  to  him,  and  he  knew  that  his  friend 
was  poor;  poor  enough  to  scorn  his  paying  for  his 
own  meal.  **  I'm  only  accustomed  to  plain  dinners," 
he  added.  "You  can  imagine  what  we  get  in  Rath- 
more.    Mutton,  fish  and  bacon  all  the  year  round." 

152 


THE  MAN  168 

"Won't  you  have  any  wine  then?" 

Father  Michael  dismissed  the  idea  at  once. 

"  Oh   no — I  always  drink  water — always." 

And  so  a  cut  from  the  joint  was  ordered,  and  Hol- 
land, deciding  in  his  mind  that  he  would  go  without 
a  second  course,  indulged  in  a  small  lager  for  him- 
self, en j  oying  it  as  though  it  had  been  champagne. 

As  soon  as  the  food  had  been  brought  to  them 
Father  Michael  put  his  question. 

"What  is  the  Globe.?" 

"A  theatre." 

"Not  a  music  hall?" 

"  Lord,  no !  A  theatre,  not  far  from  here.  There 
is  rather  a  good  piece  being  played  there — ^The  End 
of  the  Stick — comedy,  of  course.  I  haven't  seen  it, 
but  I've  been  told  it's  worth  going  to." 

"Well,  will  you  come  with  me  after  dinner?" 

Holland  drank  some  of  his  lager  and  then  laughed. 

"  Michael,"  he  said  with  mock  seriousness,  "  tliis  is 
dissipation." 

Father  Michael  smiled. 

"  But  harmless,"  he  said.  "  Besides,  I've  come  for 
my  holidays.  Unless  you  happen  to  know  that  the 
piece  there  is  not  nice?" 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  objectionable  about  it. 
The  Globe  is  a  little  apt  to  be  nice  in  its  productions." 

"You'll  come,  then?" 

"I'd  like  to  immensely.  But  I  can  sometimes  get 
tickets  for  these  things,  and  it  seems  like  chucking 
money  away." 

"Why?     How  much  would  it  be?" 

"  The  gods  of  course  would  only  be  a  shilling  each." 


164  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

"The  gods?" 

**  That's  the  cheapest  part  of  the  house.  Called  the 
gods  because  of  the  altitude  of  its  position  and  the 
facetiousness  of  its  remarks.  Next  to  that  in  price 
comes  the  pit.  That's  naturally  more  costly,  be- 
cause the  descensus  Averni  is  generally  an  expensive 
luxury,  only  to  be  afforded  by  the  rich.  The  other 
parts  of  the  house — except  the  family  circle  where 
you  can  buy  respectability  and  a  bad  seat — don't 
count.  The  tickets  are  usually  given  away  for  social 
and  other  purposes." 

Father  Michael  looked  up  from  his  plate,  and  there 
was  an  undecided  expression  on  his  face.  He  did 
not  rightly  know  whether  he  ought  to  take  Holland's 
remarks  with  a  smile  or  not. 

"  From  what  part  can  you  see  the  rest  of  the  house 
best.?" 

**  Oh,  they  all  have  their  different  advantages." 

"And  what  price  is  the  pit?" 

**  Half-a-crown." 

"Shall  we  go  there,  then?" 

"Why  this  opulence?" 

Father  Michael  smiled.  "Is  it?  I  think  we  may 
as  well  go  there.  I  don't  like  looking  at  things  from 
a  height." 

"Make  you  giddy?" 

**Not  exactly.  Rather  nervous — and  then  I  get 
that  pain  in  my  spine." 

Holland  raised  his  eyebrows,  then  finished  his  lager 
and  ordered  a  sweet  for  Father  Michael. 

For  the  rest  of  the  meal  it  would  have  seemed  that 
they  were  the  best  of  friends,  mainly  because  Holland 


THE  MAN  155 

had  put  the  episode  of  the  picture  entirely  out  of  his 
thoughts. 

But  the  rift  had  come  within  the  lute,  and  when 
they  parted  on  the  morrow  it  was  inevitable  that  the 
priest  would  pass  out  of  the  artist's  mind  and  be  for- 
gotten. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished — the  waiter  paid  and 
tipped — they  set  off  to  the  theatre,  the  pleasure  of 
life  consciously  appealing  itself  to  Father  Michael  in 
a  way  that  he  had  never  experienced  it  before.  So 
strongly  did  he  feel  this  exhilaration  that,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  heard  it.  Father  Connelly's  ad- 
vice to  him  to  give  up  philosophy  seemed  to  possess 
the  force  of  reason.  He  made  a  resolution  that  at 
least  whilst  he  was  on  his  holidays  he  would  not  open 
one  of  the  philosophical  books  that  he  had  brought 
with  him  in  his  tin  box. 

A  queue  had  already  been  formed  in  the  roofed-in 
entrance  to  the  pit,  and  there  they  took  up  their  stand 
behind  some  fifteen  other  couples  who,  reading  even- 
ing papers  or  surreptitiously  eating  from  hidden 
bags,  were  waiting  in  good-ordered  patience  for  the 
doors  to  be  opened.  Taking  their  places  behind  the 
last  pair,  Father  Michael  looked  at  his  watch  and 
found  that  it  needed  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  they 
would  be  admitted. 

"  I  suppose  this  theatre,"  he  said,  looking  on  at  the 
rows  of  people  in  front  of  him,  "  is  the  most  patron- 
ized in  London?" 

Holland  leant  up  against  the  wall  and  rested 
himself. 

"No  more  than  the  twenty  or  thirty  others,  how- 


156  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

ever  many  there  are.  It  all  depends  upon  the  piece, 
though  the  actor-managers  insist  upon  putting  a 
box-office  value  upon  their  individual  fascinations.  I 
once  heard  of  a  girl  building  a  httle  altar — she  prob- 
ably made  it  out  of  orange  boxes  and  covered  it  with 
cheap  drapery,  anyway  she  called  it  an  altar — to  one 
of  the  leading  acting-managers  in  London.  She 
used  to  say  her  prayers  to  it.  That's  a  fact.  Of 
course  I  never  heard  what  she  prayed  for,  and  I  guess 
the  person  she  prayed  to  didn't  hear  either.  Of 
course  she  wouldn't  go  to  his  theatre  to  see  a  play. 
It  'ud  be  solely  to  see  him.  And  there  are  a  good 
many  others  like  her.  They  know  they  can  make 
whatever  they  produce  pay  for  a  hundred  nights  on 
those  lines,  and  so  they  only  take  those  plays  which 
are  written  specially  for  themselves  to  uphold  the 
particular  character  they  have  secured  in  the  eyes  of 
the  public.  No  plays  are  written  around  the  blood 
of  youth,  because  there  are  no  young  men  to  produce 
them,  though  there  might  be  plenty  to  do  the  parts 
justice.  And  so  the  most  vital  and  the  most  pas- 
sionate moments  of  a  man's  life  are  a  theme  which  the 
dramatist  may  scarcely  touch,  if  he  wants  to  see  his 
plays  produced,  because  there's  a  monopoly  in  mid- 
dle-aged men.  It  seems  a  great  pity,  but  the 
greater  pity  is  that  the  public  don't  seem  to  real- 
ize it." 

"  What  is  this  age,  then,  that  you  think  is  the  most 
vital  in  a  man's  life  ?  " 
"  Why,  from  twenty  to  thirty,  of  course." 
A  pecuHar  sensation  swelled  for  one  moment  in 
Father  Michael's  throat.     He  swallowed  hastily  to 


THE  MAN  157 

rid  himself  of  it,  and  the  next  second  it  had  returned 
with  twice  its  strength. 

A  voice  behind  him,  coming  from  one  of  the  next 
two  people  who  had  taken  their  place  in  the  queue, 
seemed  to  speak  into  his  ears. 

He  knew  it  at  once.  He  would  have  known  it  any- 
where. Was  this,  he  asked  himself,  was  this  his 
boasted  strength,  this  almost  physical  weakness  that 
seemed  to  shake  all  the  strength  in  his  body-f* 

But  then  he  had  only  expected  to  look  at  her  from 
a  distance,  while  now  she  was  as  near  to  him  as  she 
had  been  in  the  morning  when  he  had  passed  her  by 
in  Regent  Street — nearer.  He  could  feel  her  being 
pressed  against  his  back  as  the  numbers  increased 
behind. 

He  was  a  fool.  His  feelings  were  running  riot  in 
him.  This  was  not  a  strength  he  could  ever  hope 
to  lean  upon.  He  made  some  inconsequent  remark 
to  Holland,  and  then  an  easing  of  the  people  in  front 
told  him  that  at  last  the  doors  had  been  opened. 

It  seemed  like  an  hour  before  his  turn  arrived  to 
enter  the  narrowing  doorway  and  put  his  money 
through  the  little  cage,  as  he  saw  every  one  else  was 
doing.  And  all  that  time  he  heard  her  voice  talking 
to  her  companion  behind  him ;  heard  her  laughing  as 
she  had  laughed  that  morning  with  a  tantalizing 
fascination,  and  felt  her  pressing  on  against  his  body 
in  her  endeavour  not  to  lose  her  place.  Through  his 
veins  the  blood  seemed  to  run  as  weak  as  water,  and  he 
became  almost  inert  with  the  impotence  that  he  felt. 
Yet  he  did  not  fully  realize  that  he  was  passing 
through  the  first  phase  of  the  sensual  passions  in 


168  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

which  women  faint  and  strong  men  tremble.     How 
should  he  know  ? 

"Well,"  he  heard  her  companion  say  when  he  was 
but  four  rows  from  the  coveted  ticket-office,  "will 
you  tell  me  now  where  you're  going  to  so  early  to- 
morrow morning?" 

She  laughed  lightly.  Father  Michael  felt  it  accom- 
pany a  shudder  that  passed  involuntarily  through  his 
body. 

"What's  the  good  of  my  telling  you?  I  should 
only  have  to  insist  that  you  wouldn't  come  as  well, 
so  it  could  not  possibly  do  you  any  good  to  know." 

"Mayn't  I  take  a  deep  interest  in  your  movements, 
even  if  I  don't  follow  them?" 

"  Certainly — if  you  like  to  waste  your  time  to  that 
extent." 

A  sudden  instinct  led  Father  Michael  to  feel  that 
she  was  not  in  sympathy  with  the  man  to  whom  she 
was  talking.  It  was  not,  as  he  had  thought  in  her 
first  words,  that  she  was  playing  with  him. 

"  Well,  tell  me,"  he  persisted.  "  I  do  like  to  waste 
my  time." 

"I'm  going  to  Mass,  then,  at  the  Brompton 
Oratory.  I'm  sure  that  must  be  highly  interesting  to 
you." 

She  was  a  Catholic!  She  belonged  to  his  faith! 
Indefinably  it  seemed  to  add  another  link  between 
them.     She  was  a  Catholic. 

In  a  city  filled  with  men  and  women  of  other  per- 
suasions he  had  met  one  of  his  own  creed.  A  strange 
sense  of  fate  made  him  think  that  there  was  some 
ulterior  reason  in  her  having  looked  into  his  eyes  that 


THE  MAN  169 

morning.  It  seemed  in  some  way  to  detract  from  the 
feeling  that  she  was  a  temptation  to  him.  It  gave 
him  a  greater  confidence  in  himself,  so  that  when  he 
had  come  to  the  ticket-oflBce  he  was  not  afraid  to 
turn  and  look  at  her. 

She  was  staring  at  a  poster  that  had  been  attached 
to  the  waU  outside,  and  the  light  of  the  lamp  that 
himg  over  the  door  was  shining  full  on  to  her  profile. 

Once  more  he  admitted  to  himself  that  she  was 
different  from  any  other  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  and 
then  Holland's  voice  brought  him  back  to  realitjr. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

It  was  close  on  twelve  o'clock  when  they  returned  to 
the  studio,  and  from  the  exertions  of  his  journey  com- 
bined with  the  day's  fatigue,  Father  Michael  was 
almost  worn  out. 

In  the  choosing  of  seats  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  girl 
in  the  theatre,  and,  except  for  a  cursory  glimpse  of 
her  red  hair  in  the  crush  of  people  leaving  the  house, 
had  seen  nothing  more  of  her. 

As  far  as  the  play  was  concerned,  he  had  seen  none 
of  its  allusions,  topical,  cynical  and  whimsical,  and, 
as  he  had  expected,  it  had  had  but  little  interest  for 
him. 

With  regard  to  the  incident,  he  had  not  been  sorry 
for  its  experience.  The  note  which  she  had  struck  in 
his  mind  when  she  had  announced  that  she  was  going 
in  the  morning  to  hear  Mass  at  the  Brompton 
Oratory  completely  eclipsed  all  other  thoughts  that 
had  harassed  him  at  first. 

For  one  brief  moment  he  had  thought  of  rising 
early  and  going  to  the  Brompton  Oratory  himself,  but 
the  next  he  had  driven  it  from  his  intentions.  That 
would  be  carrying  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  her 
too  far.  Moreover,  to  go  to  the  house  of  God  for 
any  other  reason  than  that  of  prayer,  was  strange 
to  him.  He  could  not  imagine  why  it  had  entered 
his  mind. 

He  had  seen  the  last  of  her,  and  it  was  quite  right 

160 


THE  MAN  161 

that  it  should  be  so.  The  episode  had  taught  him  its 
lesson,  and  he  was  quite  thankful  to  have  learnt  it. 
It  had  taught  him  that,  had  he  not  been  a  priest  of 
God  and  a  celibate,  he  might  have  been  drawn  towards 
her.  But  therein  lay  the  uncommon  strength  with 
which  the  vow  of  celibacy,  by  the  grace  of  God,  had 
imbued  the  priesthood. 

Then  of  course  he  still  considered  her  to  be  the 
exception  to  the  rule  in  which  he  persisted  in  be- 
lieving. 

He  had  wondered  vaguely  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
studio  whether  the  man,  her  companion,  would  take 
advantage  of  the  knowledge  that  she  should  be  out 
early  the  next  morning.  And  that  was  probably  the 
last  thought  of  her  that  entered  his  mind  before  he 
laid  his  head  down  wearily  on  the  pillow  and  fell 
asleep. 

Holland  had  put  up  a  stretcher  for  him  in  the  other 
curtained-off  recess,  and  into  that,  grateful  for  al- 
most anything  that  would  encourage  the  rest  he  so 
needed,  he  was  only  too  glad  to  retire. 

He  did  not  wake  until  the  next  morning,  when  the 
sun  began  to  find  its  way  through  a  little  circular 
window  shining  full  on  to  his  face.  But  if  he  did  not 
wake  until  then,  he  lived  in  his  sleep  through  the 
second  crisis  of  his  life;  another  of  those  threads 
which  was  drawing  him  on  by  subtle  and  intangible 
degrees  towards  the  reaHzation  of  himself. 

He  dreamt. 

It  was  a  dream  destined  to  play  a  vital  part  in  all 
his  actions,  all  his  thoughts. 

It  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  day  of  the  patron  saint 


16^  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

of  Rathmore.  A  day  when  all  the  country  people 
for  miles  around  came  into  the  village  that  they 
might  receive  the  blessing  of  the  saint  by  visiting  the 
ruins  of  his  holy  well  and  drinking  the  blessed  water. 
It  was  a  custom  that  had  been  maintained  ever  since 
the  oldest  people  in  the  place  could  remember,  and 
with  constant  use,  the  expression — patron  day — ^had 
worn  itself  into  pattern  day.  The  pattern  day  in 
Rathmore  was  known  all  over  the  county  of  Water- 
ford. 

No  matter  upon  what  day  of  the  week  the  anni- 
versary fell,  its  most  elaborate  celebration  was  held 
on  the  Sunday  following,  and  thither  to  Rathmore 
came  some  hundreds  of  people  walking  or  driving  in 
high  country  carts  which  were  unhorsed  and  put  for 
safety  into  any  yard  that  was  available. 

The  little  village  itself  was  suddenly  overwhelmed 
by  this  fluctuating  population,  and  up  and  down  the 
main  street,  which  was  converted  into  a  promenade  for 
the  enjoyment  of  those  who  had  gone  their  rounds 
of  the  sacred  ruins  on  the  cHff,  the  crowd  swayed 
backwards  and  forwards  in  noisy  hilarity.  Here,  all 
the  afternoon,  the  people  thronged  to  and  fro  in  the 
vulgar  gaudiness  of  inharmonious  colours,  the  cru- 
dity of  which  the  owners  themselves  were  the  least 
conscious.  Here  were  men  with  battered  roulette 
tables  crying  out  the  chances  of  life.  In  corners 
formed  by  the  juttirig-out  of  receding  cottages, 
groups  of  men  would  be  clustered  playing  forty-five 
with  cards,  the  faces  of  which  were  black  with  dirt 
and  greasy  with  handling. 

A  little  further   on   an   acrobat   in   thick,   white. 


THE  MAN  163 

woollen  tights  would  be  waiting  until  he  could  attract 
a  sufficient  number  of  people  to  whom  it  would  be 
lucrative  to  prove  the  suppleness  of  his  body.  His 
greasy,  golden  hair  fell  in  obnoxious  curls  over  an 
ordinary  black,  short  coat  growing  green  with  age. 
Through  the  doors  of  the  village  hotel  and  Foley's 
public-house  a  stream  of  men  and  women  would  be 
passing,  all  in  various  states  of  inebriety,  jostling 
each  other  and  shouting  with  heavy,  sodden  laughter. 
And  up  on  the  high  cliff,  overlooking  the  stretch  of 
the  broad  bay  and  the  white-crested  breast  of  the  wide 
ocean,  the  patron  saint  of  Rathmore  endeavoured  to 
shut  his  ears  to  all  this  aftermath  and  Hsten  only  to 
the  prayers  that  would  shortly  be  forgotten  in  the 
delights  of  the  village. 

There  would  be  some  indeed  who  took  their  pleasure 
first.  With  wavering  steps,  heedless  of  the  ghastly 
blasphemies  of  the  beggar  women  at  the  well,  swaying 
from  one  side  to  another  as  they  knelt,  they  would 
ofi'er  up  their  saturated  prayers  and  drink  the  blessed 
water  with  lips  tainted  by  excess. 

It  was  always  very  much  hfe,  very  much  humanity, 
this  pattern  day  in  Rathmore.  The  grossness  of 
living  and  of  pleasure  blended  itself  incongruously 
with  the  piety  of  religious  fervour.  It  is  not  a  thick 
boundary  hne  which  divides  in  human  nature  the 
spirit  of  worship  from  that  of  debauchery.  Religion 
is  a  cloak  of  densest  texture,  the  magician's  robe 
under  which,  before  the  eyes  of  thousands,  can  be 
performed  the  most  wonderful  feats  of  legerdemain 
that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  And  it  is  when  that 
religion  plays  violently  upon  the  strings  of  emotion 


1641  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

that  the  more  complete  and  the  more  spontaneous  is 
the  anti-climax  of  the  mind. 

In  this  throng  of  people  then,  where  the  grossness 
of  life  trod  close  upon  the  heels  of  fanaticism,  Father 
Michael  found  himself  in  his  dream. 

He  walked  in  the  midst  of  the  crowds  that  were 
massed  in  the  village  street,  laughing  with  this  man, 
talking  with  that;  a  state  of  affairs  which  even  in 
his  sleep  he  knew  to  be  ridiculous.  And  ever  and 
again — for  it  seemed  that  the  time  of  this  dream- 
consciousness  extended  over  many  hours — the  parish 
priest,  who  had  taken  upon  himself  the  likeness  of 
Maurice  Holland,  came  to  him,  urging  him  to  leave 
these  temptations  of  the  crowd  and  return  to  the 
studio  in  Regent  Street. 

It  was  all  ridiculous.  It  was  all  dream-nonsense, 
and  yet  through  all  its  unreality  the  sense  of  some- 
thing vital  pressed  against  him — pressed  until  it  be- 
came the  pressure  of  some  bodily  reality  being  pushed 
against  his  body  in  the  crowd.  He  felt  with  an 
unnatural  distinctness  the  outline  of  the  figure  at  his 
back,  and  instinct  told  him  who  it  was. 

Suddenly  all  his  laughter  left  him.  He  was  unable 
to  answer  the  man  who  chatted  at  his  side,  and  as  he 
walked  through  the  street  this  pressure,  full  of  its 
bodily  warmth  which  he  felt  hke  a  hot  breath  against 
him,  followed  in  his  steps  until  from  sheer  physical 
weakness  his  mind  became  blank. 

The  next  moment  it  seemed  that  the  whole  scene  had 
altered. 

He  was  alone  with  the  girl  whom  he  had  seen  at  the 
theatre  that  evening,  far  away  on  the  strand  that 


THE  MAN  165 

led  to  Ballysheen.  The  tide  was  right  out,  and  the 
sand  stretched  with  its  path  of  gold  where  the  sea  had 
once  been  and  soon  would  come  again. 

She  was  laughing,  and  her  laughter  twisted  his  con- 
trol into  a  quivering  knowledge  of  desire.  Far  in 
the  distance,  near  the  village,  he  thought  he  saw 
the  figure  of  her  companion  coming  to  claim  her.  It 
seemed  the  early  morning  then,  for  the  bell  for  Mass 
was  just  ringing. 

In  that  moment  she  laughed  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  human ;  knew  that  that  which 
he  craved  was  what  all  men  desired — swore  that  his 
vows  were  broken  before  they  were,  and  the  next 
moment  had  crushed  her  in  his  arms. 

But  before  his  lips  had  met  hers,  before  even  he 
felt  her  breath  upon  his  cheek,  his  eyes  had  opened 
onto  the  sunlight  that  flooded  in  through  the  little 
circular  window,  and  he  was  conscious  that  however 
real  it  had  all  been  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

That  morning  at  breakfast  Holland  remarked  on 
the  pallor  of  his  friend's  face. 

*'You  look  absolutely  worn  out,"  he  said.  "Did 
too  much  yesterday,  I  suppose.  Didn't  you  sleep 
well.?" 

'*  Yes,  I  slept."  A  trace  of  colour  flushed  into  his 
cheeks.     "  But  I  sometimes  think  I'm  far  from  well." 

Holland  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  looked 
up  from  his  plate  of  bacon  and  fried  egg. 

*'Look  here,"  he  said  seriously,  "you  ought  to  see 
a  doctor.  It's  ridiculous  to  allow  yourself  to  go  on 
suffering  like  that  and  not  do  anything  to  remedy  it." 

*'I  went  to  the  doctor  in  Rathmore.  He  told  me 
it  was  my  digestion." 

"The  doctor  in  Rathmore!  Good  Lord!  An  old- 
fashioned  practitioner,  I  suppose,  who's  read  of  the 
craze  of  indigestion  and  thinks  the  talking  about  it 
brings  him  up  to  date.  You  want  to  go  to  a  man 
who's  seen  a  little  more  of  things  than  the  doctor  in 
Rathmore." 

"But  their  charge  is  so  exorbitant  here.?" 

"  That's  true.  But  there's  a  fellow  I  know  here  in 
town.  He's  a  great  friend  of  mine.  One  of  those 
clever  beggars  who's  bound  to  come  out  in  the 
counting." 

"A  doctor?" 

"Of  course.  M.D.  of  London.  He  wrote  to  me 
about  a  year  ago.     Wanted  the  original  of  a  picture 

1«6 


THE  MAN  167 

that  I'd  done  for  one  of  the  Christmas  numbers. 
That  was  how  I  got  to  know  him.  He's  come  up  to 
my  studio  and  brought  one  or  two  things  since.  I'll 
give  you  a  letter  to  him,  or  look  here,  you  take  a  card 
of  mine  and  then  he'll  defer  payment  of  his  fee  to 
whatever  time  suits  you." 

*'  What  is  his  charge  ?  " 

*' A  guinea.  That's  less  than  they  ask  for  usually 
on  a  first  visit.'' 

Father  Michael  remembered  his  other  ailments,  and 
from  Holland's  eulogies  he  felt  a  vague  confidence  in 
this  man;  confidence  that  never  entered  his  mind 
with  regard  to  Dr.  Giveen. 

"  I  think  I'll  go,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  table  and 
leaving  his  breakfast  untouched. 

*'  Yes,  do.  He'll  probably  give  you  a  tonic.  I 
should  think  that  that's  what  you  want — pulling 
up,"  and  he  hunted  among  some  of  his  papers  for  a 
card. 

"Dr.  Madison,"  he  said,  giving  him  the  little  white 
slip.     **  He  lives  in  Upper  Baker  Street." 

When  he  had  received  instructions  about  the  way 
Father  Michael  set  off,  promising  to  be  back  in  good 
time  to  pack  up  the  few  things  that  he  had  taken  out 
of  his  tin  box  for  immediate  use. 

The  house  where  the  doctor  lived  was  one  similar 
to  many  others  that  stretched  to  right  and  left  of  it. 
He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  It,  and  when  he  had 
rung  the  bell  he  waited  on  the  step  feeling  a  sudden 
reticence  growing  in  his  mind  to  speak  of  his 
symptoms. 

The  door  was  opened,  however,  before  this  seasa- 


168  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

tlon  had  time  to  grow  imperative,  and,  having  given 
Holland's  card,  he  was  shown  into  a  waiting-room, 
where  a  number  of  weekly  papers  were  spread  on  the 
table  and  two  pictures  by  Holland  adorned  the 
sparsely  furnished  walls. 

He  had  been  seated  only  for  a  moment  when  the 
maid  returned  to  show  him  into  the  doctor's  study,  a 
room  quietly  papered  in  dark  green  and  furnished 
restfully  with  every  comfort  and  convenience. 

Dr.  Madison  himself  was  a  middle-sized,  clean- 
shaven man  with  quiet  but  at  times  searching  eyes. 
His  face  was  pale,  almost  that  of  an  ascetic,  which  in 
repose  seemed  taciturn  and  gloomy,  but  could  on 
occasions  with  his  smile  become  kindly  and  genial. 

He  was  just  about  to  make  some  greeting,  expect- 
ing from  the  card  he  had  been  given  to  see  his  friend 
the  artist.  When  he  beheld  the  face  of  Father 
Michael  the  words  he  had  half-framed  died  away  into 
a  look  of  inquiry. 

*'  Good-morning,'*  he  said.  *'  I  have  here  a  card  of 
Mr.  Holland's." 

*'You  have.  He  is  a  friend  of  mine.  He  recom- 
mended me  to  come  and  see  you." 

*'  Ah,  yes.     Now  I  understand.    Sit  down,  will  you." 

In  a  swift  moment  of  thought  the  priest  could  not 
help  comparing  this  man's  manner  with  that  of  Dr. 
Giveen.  The  one  quiet  and  attentive,  the  other  genial 
and  neglectful. 

"  Have  you  been  running  yourself  down  ?  '* 

His  practised  eye  had  made  a  shrewd  guess  at 
Father  Michael's  condition. 

"  I  have,  I  suppose." 


THE  MAN  169 

"  Or  Is  it  climatic  ?  "  His  eyes  smiled  as  he  put  the 
question. 

"What?" 

"  Chmatic.  The  atmospheric  conditions  of  your 
country  are  rather  conducive  to  this  sort  of  thing." 

"Ireland?  I  do  come  from  Ireland."  Father 
Michael  smiled.  This  man  was  making  him  feel  per- 
fectly at  ease.  *'  But  I  don't  fancy  it  has  anything 
to  do  with  the  climate." 

"  Well,  tell  me  what  you  feel." 

With  this  encouragement  Father  Michael  described 
his  symptoms,  losing  his  reticence  as  he  proceeded, 
and  Madison  listened,  making  sympathetic  remarks 
when  he  paused.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished  the 
doctor  leant  forward  with  his  chin  on  his  hand  and 
studied  him  for  a  moment.  At  first  the  priest  met 
his  eyes,  and  then  his  own  fell  from  nervous  embar- 
rassment. After  the  pause  Madison  rose  from  his 
chair,  brought  the  priest  over  to  the  window  and  care- 
fully examined  him,  then  they  sat  down  again. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  said  the  doctor  considerately. 
"Have  you  been  working  a  good  deal?" 

"  Not  exactly  working.     I  do  a  lot  of  reading." 

"  But  not  under  pressure  for  time?  " 

"Not  at  all." 

"  And  you  smoke  ?  " 

**  I  used  to  in  the  evenings,  but  I've  given  that  up." 

"Do  you  drink  much  alcohol?" 

"  None  at  all." 

"None  at  all?" 

The  doctor  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  drink  tea.     Three  times  a  day.     Weak  tea." 


170         THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

A  smile  began  to  spread  over  the  doctor's  eyes. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said.     "  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Twenty-six." 

**  You're  not  married.'"' 

For  a  moment  Father  Michael  wondered  why  he 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  a  Catholic  priest.  Then 
remembered  that,  in  the  thin  black  overcoat  which 
he  had  slipped  on  at  the  last  moment  because  it 
threatened  rain,  he  must  look  like  an  ordinary  lay- 
man. 

"I  am  not,"  he  replied,  and  he  was  just  about  to 
make  explanations  when  the  doctor  added  another 
remark. 

"Of  course  I  don't  wish  to  be  personal,  and 
naturally  I  know  nothing  whatsoever  about  your 
means — but  as  soon  as  you  can  afford  to  marry, 
I'd  do  so,  if  I  were  you." 

Father  Michael  felt  a  nauseating  sense  of  fear  rise 
in  his  throat.  He  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  chair ; 
crossed  and  recrossed  his  legs. 

"That  is  impossible.  I'm  a  priest  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church." 

Imperceptibly  Madison  sat  a  little  more  upright 
in  his  chair.  For  a  moment  he  looked  thoughtfully 
at  Father  Michael;  and  then,  taking  a  large  red 
book  from  a  little  bookshelf  at  his  side,  he  wrote 
something  from  it  onto  a  slip  of  paper  and  handed  it 
to  the  priest. 

"  You  are  suffering  from  a  form  of  neurasthenia," 
he  said  quietly,  while  Father  IMichael  looked  down  at 
the  little  piece  of  paper  on  which  he  could  see  that  an 
address  was  written. 


THE  MAN  171 

"Neurasthenia,"  Madison  went  on,  "is  a  degenera- 
tion of  the  nerves.  Your  nerves  are  in  a  bad  condi- 
tion. I  have  given  you  there  the  address  of  a  doctor 
who,  like  yourself,  is  a  Roman  Catholic.  I  know  him 
to  be  a  very  clever  man,  and  I  fancy  he  will  know 
better  what  to  say  to  you  than  I.  You  say  you  are 
a  Roman  Cathohc  priest  and  a  cehbate.  Well,  of 
course  I  hope  you  understand,  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
your  feelings,  and  so  I  am  sending  you  to  Dr.  King- 
ston. He  will  probably  see  the  case  in  a  different 
light  from  what  I  do.  You  understand  I  don't 
expect  a  fee  for  this  short  interview." 

He  leant  across  his  desk  and  rung  a  small  beU.  The 
maid  came  at  once  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  then 
retreated  to  the  hall-door  to  show  Father  Michael 
out. 

**  Good-morning,"  said  Madison  kindly,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Father  Michael  took  it  almost  unconsciously.  From 
the  moment  that  the  doctor  had  spoken  about  mar- 
riage the  priest  had  been  steeling  his  mind  to  fight 
for  his  point  of  view.  But  before  he  could  bring 
forth  his  weapons,  or  even  show  that  he  was  armed  at 
all,  the  combat  was  over.  He  was  alone  on  the  field. 
It  was  the  most  disconcerting  victory  that  he  had 
ever  experienced. 

'*  You  won't  give  me  any  advice?  "  he  asked,  feeling 
that  he  would  never  go  and  see  this  Dr.  Kingston, 
and  being  still  impressed  by  the  assuring  manner  of 
the  man  before  him. 

"  I'll  just  ask  you  one  question,"  said  the  doctor  on 
impulse,  "  which  you  are  at  perfect  liberty  to  refuse  to 


172  THE  APPLE  OF.  EDEN 

answer  if  you  wish.  When  did  you  take  your  vow  of 
celibacy  ?     At  what  age  ?  " 

'*  Twenty-one,"  Father  Michael  replied.  He  was 
proud  of  it.     **  But  won't  you  give  me  any  advice?  " 

"  My  advice  to  you,"  said  Madison  quietly,  "  would 
be  worth  nothing." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

**  My  advice  to  you  would  be  worth  nothing." 

In  the  half -hour  or  so  that  it  took  him  to  return  to 
the  studio  from  the  house  in  Upper  Baker  Street  those 
words  of  Dr.  Madison's  were  wandering  aimlessly 
through  his  mind.  At  first,  in  the  subtlety  of  their 
full  meaning,  their  significance  had  been  almost  im- 
possible to  grasp.  But  by  degrees,  as  he  turned 
into  Regent  Street,  the  full  force  of  them  had  begun 
to  make  itself  clear  to  him. 

Had  the  doctor  aired  all  the  opinions  of  his  scien- 
tific beliefs  the  priest  would  have  been  able  to  meet 
him  on  his  own  ground  with  his  theological  convic- 
tions. But  such  had  not  for  a  moment  in  the  whole 
interview  been  the  case.  And  it  was  not  that  he 
appeared  in  Father  Michael's  eyes  as  a  man  of  com- 
monplace or  unconvincing  ideas.  On  the  other  hand, 
from  the  very  beginning  of  their  conversation  he  had 
assessed  him  at  a  high  intellectual  value,  and  conse- 
quently his  refusal  to  accept  and  treat  the  case  on 
grounds,  not  of  inability,  but  of  principle,  was  all 
the  more  disconcerting. 

He  fully  realized  all  that  the  doctor  had  implied. 
He  would  have  asked  him  to  consider  a  course  of 
action  that  Father  Michael  would  have  found  impos- 
sible. And  because  he  could  see  no  other  means  to 
benefit  the  case,  he  had  refrained  from  enlarging  upon 
the  delicate  suggestion  that  he  had  made  when  he  had 
been  unaware  of  the  full  nature  of  the  circumstances. 

173 


174  THE   APPLE   OF.  EDEN 

And  It  was  this  silence,  had  Madison  known  it, 
which  it  is  likely  that  he  did,  that  more  cruelly  and 
poignantly  drove  its  conviction  home  into  the  mind 
of  Father  Michael.  Turn  how  he  might  he  could 
not  get  away  from  the  unavoidable  impression  which 
it  had  left  in  his  thoughts,  because  there  was  no  tan- 
gible object  to  avoid,  no  definite  obstacle  to  fight  or 
leave. 

There  was  no  use  in  saying  to  himself,  as  most 
undoubtedly  he  would  have  done,  that  it  was  not 
true,  because  there  was  nothing  said  upon  which  he 
could  place  his  accusation.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  gained  in  railing  against  the  opinions  of  the  scien- 
tific world,  because  none  had  been  held  out  to  him. 
Yet,  undeniably,  irrevocably  he  felt  the  presence  and 
the  force  of  their  existence. 

Had  he  possessed  the  mind  of  Father  Connelly — 
that  son  of  nature,  natural  in  his  cehbacy — ^he  would 
have  laughed  in  Madison's  face  and  gone  off  to  Dr. 
Kingston  with  a  spirit  of  investigation  and  a  clear 
conscience.  But  that  possession  is  one  upon  which 
nature  makes  but  few  of  her  children  to  count.  Priest 
of  God,  as  he  was  destined  and  made  to  be,  he  had 
reckoned  without  the  man,  and  now  the  reckoning 
was  coming  too  late  because  the  demands  upon  his 
nature  had  been  made  too  soon. 

It  chanced,  as  though  by  the  spinning  of  a  coin 
that  has  a  bias  to  fall  one  way,  that  he  was  not  of 
that  rare  breed  which  makes  and  moulds  the  morbid 
ascetic.  It  was  only  in  one  respect  truly  that  he 
fell  short  of  this  distinction,  yet  it  was  in  that  respect 
which  was  to  be  the  basis  of  his  downfall;  in  that 


THE  MAN  175 

respect,  without  the  consideration  of  which  he  would 
not  have  been  permitted  to  call  himself  a  priest  of 
God. 

The  man  who  becomes  a  priest  must  be  physically 
and  mentally  whole  in  every  portion  of  his  body  and 
mind.  The  Holy  Church  will  not  accept  deformities 
amongst  their  priesthood. 

Father  Michael's  thoughts  reverted  to  that  moment 
in  his  life  when,  at  the  command  of  the  Bishop,  he 
had  stepped  through  the  first  portal  leading  into  that 
house  of  life  which  he  had  chosen  for  his  abode.  If 
it  were  true,  he  argued  to  himself,  that  that  step  had 
brought  upon  him  the  sufferings  of  the  body,  what 
did  it  matter  so  long  as  it  did  not  bring  a  suffering 
of  the  mind?  What  were  the  physical  ills  of  this 
life  compared  with  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  soul? 
Nothing!  Nothing!  He  would  suffer  them  a  thou- 
sand times  sooner  than  be  otherwise  than  an  avowed 
celibate  and  a  priest  in  holy  orders. 

When  he  reached  the  studio  Holland,  who  had  been 
working  at  his  picture  without  the  model,  rose  from 
his  high  four-legged  stool  and  covered  the  baize  over 
the  canvas. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  drawing  no  attention  to  his  action, 
**  did  you  see  him?  " 

"  I  did  of  course." 

"Well?" 

"Well?" 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

"  Nerves.  He  said  I  was  suffering  from  some  long 
name  which  he  explained  quite  voluntarily  meant 
nerves." 


176  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

Holland  pardonably  drew  the  mistalcen  inference 
from  this  veiled  sarcasm  that  Father  Michael  had  no 
great  opinion  of  the  ability  of  his  friend  Dr.  Madison. 

"  Oh,"  he  remarked,  turning  away  to  his  besmeared 
palette,  and  the  rest  of  the  sentence  that  had  risen 
to  his  lips  he  kept  to  himself. 

This  was  all  that  passed  between  them  on  the  subject 
of  his  visit  to  the  doctor,  and  soon  after,  having 
nothing  better  to  do,  the  priest  packed  up  the  few  of 
his  belongings  that  had  been  called  into  requisition 
during  his  short  stay  in  London. 

By  the  time  that  they  had  finished  lunch  it  was 
close  enough  to  the  moment  of  Father  Michael's 
departure  for  a  cab  to  be  called,  and  together  they 
drove  down  to  Charing  Cross,  from  which  station  the 
priest  was  to  commence  the  rest  of  his  journey  into 
another  and  yet  stranger  country. 

Bereft  of  ideas  for  conversation,  they  maintained 
an  almost  continuous  silence  until  they  reached  the 
station.  There  the  need  for  action,  such  as  the  label- 
ling and  registration  of  luggage,  became  the  object 
of  a  few  remarks,  but  otherwise  they  spoke  of  no  per- 
sonal matters. 

At  last  the  final  whistle  was  blown,  and  Father 
Michael  leant  out  of  the  carriage  window,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  many 
thanks,  indeed,  for  your  kindness  in  giving  me 
room." 

Holland  grasped  his  hand.  A  sudden  sentiment 
rose  to  his  mind  that  this  man  was  one  who  had 
irarped  his  own  understanding  of  nature  for  reasons. 


THE  MAN  m 

noble  reasons,  which  no  one  could  but  admire  him 
for. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "perhaps  we  shall  see  each 
other  again." 

**  Possibly,"  replied  Father  Michael,  with  an  answer- 
ing smile. 

And  then  the  train  moved  slowly  out  of  the  station, 
leaving  one  of  them  convinced  that  their  roads  in  Ufe 
lay  no  more  in  the  same  direction  than  do  the  paths 
of  the  sun  and  the  wind ;  bearing  away  the  other  who 
felt  that  the  destiny  of  his  existence  could  never  join 
in  companionship  again  with  the  man  who  had  once 
been  his  friend. 


BOOK  III 
THE  WOMAN. 


••And  the  Lord  God  said.  It  is  not  good  that  the 
man  should  be  alone;  I  will  make  him  an  help  meet 
for  him.  And  the  rib,  which  the  Lord  God  had  taken 
from  man,  made  he  a  woman,  and  brought  her  unto 
the  man."— Gen.  ii.  18,  22, 


CHAPTER   XIX 

DuRESNE  Is  one  of  those  out-of-the-way,  obscure, 
little  villages  lying  some  twenty  or  thirty  miles  south 
of  Paris.  There  is  nothing  uncommon  about  its 
appearance,  either  in  detail  or  to  the  casual  observer 
who  flies  by  in  the  Lyons  express  on  his  way  to  the 
south. 

The  lofty,  tiled  spire  of  its  miniature  church  rises 
high  above  the  cluster  of  white  houses  that  cling 
together  in  friendly  intimacy,  but  beyond  that  and 
the  woods  which  lie  wrapped  in  a  blue  haze  In  the 
background,  It  has  nothing  to  mark  it  as  an  exception 
to  the  rest  of  Its  kind. 

Long,  uninteresting  roads,  lined  with  their  monot- 
onous rows  of  poplars,  stretching  to  north  and  south, 
lead  out  of  It  from  either  side.  In  itself  it  contains 
one  principal  street  together  with  a  few  by-lanes  and 
alleys,  but  nothing  beyond  that» 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this  apparent  lack  of 
interest  which  it  seems  to  display,  the  woods  In  the 
background  and  the  marshy  land  with  its  stagnant 
pools  and  long-reeded  grass  escaping  the  eye  of  the 
passing  traveller,  have  become  a  well-known  resort  for 
that  class  of  artist  which  cannot  afford  to  travel  far 
or  meet  any  heavy  expenses  of  living. 

Aumonier's  exhibition  of  pictures  In  London  some 
years  ago  can  easily  be  brought  to  mind,  and  it  was 
no  doubt  from  the  many  studies,  water-colours  and 
etchings  done  about  Duresne  which  he  hung  In  promi- 

181 


182  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

nent  places  that  aspiring  students  heard  about  it  and 
made  their  way  there. 

In  this  little  village  then,  waiting  in  Paris  only 
while  the  change  of  trains  compelled  him,  Father 
Michael  found  himself  in  the  space  of  some  seven  or 
eight  hours,  and  it  being  too  late  in  the  evening 
to  go  to  the  convent  to  see  his  sister,  he  contented 
himself  with  a  meal  and  went  to  bed. 

The  pension,  as  his  sister  had  chosen  to  call  it,  was 
merely  one  of  the  many  white  houses  which  con- 
stituted the  principal  habitations  of  the  village.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  a  little  larger  than  the  rest,  that  is  to 
say  it  possessed  greater  accommodations,  but  in 
other  respects  it  did  not  stand  out  conspicuously 
from  among  its  fellows. 

Mrs.  Warren,  to  whom  it  belonged,  was  a  great 
personal  friend  of  the  Reverend  Mother's  at  the  con- 
vent. The  latter,  seeing  that  many  artists  and  visit- 
ors were  coming  to  the  village,  and  complaining  of  the 
want  of  a  suitable  place  of  temporary  habitation,  had 
written  to  her  friend  in  Paris.  Then,  having  secured 
the  offer  of  this  house,  she  had  advised  her  to  come 
and  take  the  opportunity  of  remaining  in  comfort  for 
the  rest  of  her  life. 

Mrs.  Warren  was  a  widow,  teaching  English  to  a 
few  pupils  in  Paris  was  not  lucrative,  and  she  had  a 
small  balance  at  the  bank,  all  of  which  things  were  in 
favour  of  the  suggestion,  and  so  the  place  had  become 
her  own. 

For  the  first  three  years  it  had  paid.  It  had 
brought  her  into  everyday  contact  with  a  friend  for 
whom  she  had  the  dearest  admiration,  and  conse- 


THE   WOMAN  183 

quently  the  little  widow  with  her  homely  face  and 
maternal  manners  was  thoroughly  contented. 

In  recommending  her  brother  to  Mrs.  Warren's 
charge,  Sister  Mary  Conception — who,  from  a  red- 
faced  little  girl  with  simple  features,  had  changed  but 
slightly  indeed,  since  she  had  left  the  world — had  not 
only  pleased  herself  with  the  possibility  of  seeing 
Father  Michael.  She  had  also  endeavoured  to  do 
something  that  would  please  the  Reverend  Mother, 
for  whom  she,  with  every  one  who  knew  this  admirable 
woman,  had  the  greatest  feelings  of  respect. 

The  priest  was  shown  at  once  to  the  small  room — 
immaculately  clean — that  was  to  be  his  for  the  next 
three  weeks,  or  however  long  he  chose  to  stay.  He 
felt  a  great  sense  of  relief,  after  the  various  experi- 
ences of  his  journey  from  London,  to  hear  English 
spoken  once  more  and,  with  the  information  from 
Mrs.  Warren  that  they  were  all  looking  forward  to 
seeing  him  at  the  convent  in  the  morning,  he  went  to 
bed.  Coming  down  the  next  day  to  breakfast,  he 
found  that  he  was  the  only  visitor  in  the  house,  Mrs. 
Warren  officiating  as  hostess  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

She  chatted  to  him  brightly  about  his  sister,  drew 
from  him  his  opinions  on  the  various  places  he  had 
seen  on  the  journey,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought 
of  London  and  of  Paris.  When  she  heard  that  he 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  latter  city  beyond  what  he 
had  passed  through  during  his  exchange  from  the 
Gare  du  Nord  to  the  Gare  de  Lyons,  she  waxed 
enthusiastic  on  the  beauties  of  the  city  and  per- 
suaded him  that  before  he  left  France  he  must  spend 
a  day  there  at  least. 


184  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

So  it  was,  before  the  meal  was  over,  that  he  felt 
the  return  of  all  his  good  spirits.  He  came  to  the 
conclusion,  with  this  atmosphere  of  happy  simplicity 
all  about  him,  that  life  was  not  all  a  struggle  against 
inclination  and  the  inviolable  laws  of  nature.  There 
were  corners  of  the  world  where  such  struggles  could 
be  avoided.  This  was  one,  Rathmore  was  another, 
and  he  rose  from  the  table  when  breakfast  was  finished 
feeling  that  that  one  day  and  night  in  London  had 
been  all  a  cruel  dream  of  which  this  return  of  content 
was  the  merciful  awakening. 

"  You  have  no  other  visitors  then  ?  "  he  said  as  he 
pushed  his  chair  under  the  table. 

Mrs.  Warren  accepted  the  reminder  quite  cheer- 
fully. 

"The  greatest  number  come  in  the  late  spring  or 
the  beginning  of  autumn,  you  know.  Those  are  very 
favourite  seasons  of  the  year.  But  you're  not  the 
only  visitor.  Father.  There's  a  lady  artist.  Well,  I 
ought  really  to  call  her  a  student,  she  doesn't  profess 
to  be  anything  greater  than  that.  Roona  Lawless — 
she's  Irish,  of  course.  Why,  we  shall  all  be  Irish  here 
when  she  comes  back.  It'll  be  quite  a  national  con- 
vention. She's  been  away  for  a  week  or  ten  days, 
but  I've  just  had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning 
telling  me  that  she'll  be  back  to-night.  The  same 
train  that  you  came  by  last  night." 

**  Does  my  sister  know  her  ?  " 

"Yes — slightly.  But  she's  always  out  sketching — 
a  most  enthusiastic  worker  she  is — and  so  they  see 
very  little  of  her  at  the  convent.  I  must  confess 
myself — and   I    really    pride   myself   on    my   judg- 


THE    WOMAN  186 

ment — "  she  laughed,  "I  really  don't  understand 
Roona  in  the  least.  She's  ridiculously  young.  I'm 
sure  she  can't  be  more  than  twenty-two  at  the  most 
— but  the  ideas  which  that  child  gets  into  her  head! 
You  see,  whenever  she's  not  sketching,  she  reads.  I 
believe  she  reads  when  she  goes  to  bed.  I  haven't 
caught  her  at  it  yet  though.  I'm  sure  it  'ud  do  her 
a  great  deal  of  good  if  you  talked  to  her  a  little, 
Father." 

The  priest  smiled  brightly.  This  little  woman's 
volubility  amused  him  considerably.  She  seemed  to 
find  so  great  an  interest  in  everything  around  her. 
But  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  he  only  gave  her 
the  opportunity  she  would  talk  away  the  whole 
morning  with  the  greatest  east  and  delight. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  shall  have  to  talk 
to  her  as  you  say.  But  hadn't  I  better  be  getting  up 
to  the  convent  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  and  she  proceeded  to  give 
him  the  most  minute  directions,  though  a  child  could 
have  found  its  way  there  without  any  difficulty. 

It  seemed  strange  to  him  coming  out  of  the  house 
that  morning  and  stepping  into  the  village  street,  on 
to  which  the  front  windows  of  Mrs.  Warren's  house 
looked.  Talking  to  her  as  he  had  been  doing  for 
the  last  half -hour  or  more  in  his  own  language,  he 
had  almost  forgotten  that  he  was  in  Franc?,  and  then 
in  one  moment  the  chattering  of  a  strange  tongue  at 
every  comer  filled  his  ears  and  he  found  himself 
trying  to  realize  that  they  were  thinking  the  same 
thoughts  or  saying  the  very  same  things  that  he 
might  say  or  think. 


186  THE  APPLE   OF   EDEN 

Surrounded  by  a  high  white  wall,  above  which  rose 
a  line  of  poplar  trees  that  skirted  the  wall  on  the 
inside,  the  convent  stood  a  little  aloof  from  the  rest 
of  the  village  on  a  high  piece  of  ground.  From  its 
upper  windows  one  could  see  across  the  marsh  land, 
with  its  ribbons  of  light  reflected  in  the  strips  of 
water,  to  the  woods  beyond  and  out  from  there  over 
the  great  stretch  of  level  country.  The  open 
jalousies  of  those  upper  windows  threw  deep,  quiet 
shadows  on  the  white  walls  of  the  house,  and  the  whole 
place  was  imbued  with  a  restful  minghng  of  sun  and 
shade.  A  profound  silence  clung  to  the  surround- 
ings, a  silence  that  was  wakened  almost  rudely  by  the 
clanging  of  the  bell  which  Father  Michael  rang  as  he 
reached  the  wooden  door,  the  only  means  of  entrance 
into  the  convent. 

After  a  few  moments  the  little  grating  door  within 
the  wooden  structure  was  opened  and  he  saw  the  white 
gamp  and  headdress  of  the  lay  sister  as  she  peered 
through  the  lattice  to  see  who  it  was.  The  next 
moment  the  little  nun,  guessing  his  identity,  had  ad- 
mitted him.  Her  face  was  benign  with  smiles  and 
her  gestures  grotesquely,  delightfully  French  as, 
chatting  away  in  very  broken  English  which  en- 
deavoured to  express  how  glad  his  sister  would  be  to 
see  him,  she  led  him  up  to  the  house.  He  did  not 
know  it,  but  many  a  pair  of  eyes,  from  behind  the 
closed  jalousies,  were  watching  his  approach. 

Scarcely  was  he  shown  into  the  reception  room  when 
with  a  rustling  of  robes,  Sister  Mary  Conception 
hurried  in  to  greet  him.  It  did  not  matter  in  the  least 
that  they  hardly  recognized  each  other — it  had  no 


THE    WOMAN  187 

bearing  on  the  case  that  she  had  last  seen  him  as 
little  Michael,  sitting  near  the  blind  man  in  the  farm 
kitchen  at  Ballyporeen — he  was  Father  Michael — her 
brother — and  the  blood  that  is  thicker  than  water 
takes  no  important  count  of  remembrances. 

All  she  reahzed  was  that  very  few  of  the  other  nuns* 
brothers  ever  came  to  see  them,  and  that  he  had 
travelled  all  the  way  from  Ireland  especially  to  visit 
her.  She  was  without  doubt  the  proudest  sister  in 
the  convent  that  day,  the  good-natured  envy  of  every 
one  of  her  fellows. 

Their  first  consideration  was  the  times  that  were 
past.  Days  of  happy  memory  were  recalled;  days 
which  In  their  immediate  moments  had  passed  each  of 
them  by  in  the  casual  course  of  events,  containing 
not  one  trace  of  the  sentiment  which  they  now  dis- 
covered In  them.  And  all  this  combined  to  make 
Father  Michael  forget  his  time  in  London  with  its 
cruel  realizations.  He  might  have  been  back  in 
Rathmore  again,  or  In  Ballyporeen,  for  all  the 
simplicity  of  life  that  was  around  him.  Yet  never- 
theless, deep  in  the  soil  of  his  mind  the  seed  of  reckon- 
ing had  been  sown,  ready  for  the  favourable  wind  and 
the  fructuating  rain  of  circumstances  to  bring  it 
suddenly  and  imperishably  Into  being. 

They  had  by  no  means  exhausted  their  stock  of 
memories  before  the  Reverend  Mother  came  into  the 
room  and  was  introduced  to  Father  Michael.  Then 
the  conversation  became  usual  with  commonplaces, 
and  after  a  few  moments  the  priest  was  asked  If  he 
would  like  to  see  the  chapel.  Every  convent  Is  In- 
ordinately  proud   of  its   chapel.     And   so   he   was 


188  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

brought  to  the  little  building  that  stood  m  the 
grounds  a  little  apart  from  the  house.  The  graves 
of  the  departed  sisters  marked  with  their  plain,  black, 
wooden  crosses,  lay  in  a  plot  of  grass  by  its  side. 

Quiet  and  still,  with  that  strange  peacefulness  that 
is  apart  from  the  world  and  its  struggles,  the  interior 
of  the  chapel  was  the  most  restful  spot  in  the  whole 
convent.  The  stone-paved  floor  was  lit  with  great 
patches  of  light  where  the  sunshine  flooded  in  through 
the  windows,  and  the  polished  deal-wood  stalls,  where 
the  choir  nuns  sat  every  morning  at  Mass,  caught 
and  reflected  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  little  points  of 
light. 

There  was  a  simple  lack  of  that  grandeur  which  is 
to  be  seen  in  nearly  all  Roman  Catholic  places  of 
worship,  a  simple  absence  of  colour  in  the  decoration, 
which  spoke  of  the  no  great  opulence  of  the  order, 
and,  to  the  mind  that  is  crossed  with  imagination,  had 
its  story  to  tell  of  simple  prayers  and  simple  lives  and 
simple  women. 

Father  Michael  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking 
towards  the  altar,  then  with  a  thoughtful  genuflexion 
he  walked  u*p  the  aisle  to  the  altar  rail  and  knelt  down, 
so  that  when  the  other  nuns,  hearing  of  the  arrival  of 
Sister  Mary  Conception's  brother,  had  hurried  down 
to  the  chapel  to  be  introduced,  they  found  him 
engaged  in  prayer. 


CHAPTER   XX 

He  was  given  a  midday  meal  at  the  convent,  some 
of  the  sisters  waiting  upon  his  wants  with  an  old- 
fashioned  assiduity,  whilst  others  sat  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room  and  watched  him  with  an  almost  childish 
curiosity. 

That  day,  as  he  thought  of  it  in  the  evening  when 
he  retired  early  to  bed,  had  contained  all  the  first 
hajJpy  moments  of  his  holiday.  The  change  of  air, 
the  change  of  scene,  were  beginning  to  work  their 
beneficial  effect  upon  him.  All  the  weight  of  useless 
introspection  that  had  burdened  his  mind  with  its 
morbid  imaginings  during  his  short  stay  in  London 
had  in  these  few  moments  been  entirely  taken  from 
him.  He  felt  that  his  health  was  improving.  He 
knew  that  he  was  in  his  natural  element,  and  with 
that  knowledge  came  the  strength  to  thrust  all  his 
experiences  of  the  last  few  days  into  the  background 
of  oblivion.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with  them. 
They  were  not  in  the  nature  of  his  being,  and  since  he 
had  not  chosen  their  life,  but  another  and  a  higher 
calling,  he  could  dispense  with  them,  and  whatever 
truth  they  happened  to  contain,  for  ever. 

With  these  consoling  thoughts  acting  upon  his  mind, 
to  a  far  greater  degree  of  efficacy  than  any  sedative 
which  Dr.  Giveen  could  have  given  him,  he  fell  asleep ; 
slept  with  the  rest  that  comes  to  a  little  child  and 
woke  the  next  morning  to  greet  the  sun  which  seemed 

189 


190  THE  APPLE   OK  EDEN 

to  blend  with  the  new  life  that  he  felt  tangibly  before 
him. 

Coming  down  to  the  breakfast-room  he  found  that 
he  was  early.  Mrs.  Warren  herself,  early  riser  and 
indefatigable  housekeeper  as  she  was,  had  not  yet 
made  her  appearance,  so  he  contented  himself  with 
looking  out  of  the  window  on  to  the  square  of  garden 
that  was  set  behind  the  house.  The  masses  of  flowers 
in  that  miniature  space  would  have  appeared 
cramped,  almost  ridiculously  so,  had  they  been  any 
less  beautiful  than  they  were.  Their  scent  seemed  to 
reach  him  where  he  stood.  He  was  tempted  to  open 
the  long  windows,  step  out  into  the  garden  and  sit 
down  on  the  garden  seat  that  faced  the  back  of  the 
house,  but  at  that  moment  the  maid  brought  in  the 
letters  and,  turning,  he  found  that  one  had  been  laid 
on  his  plate.  Another  lay  in  the  third  place  which  had 
been  set,  he  rightly  supposed,  for  Miss  Lawless,  the 
lady  art  student.  He  saw  the  name — Roona  Lawless 
— written  across  it  in  cramped,  small  handwriting, 
and  as  he  was  taking  his  eyes  from  it — in  the  cursory 
glance  which  he  had  bestowed  upon  the  envelope — 
he  caught  sight  of  the  postmark,  Lee:  Lee,  the 
largest  town  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  not  thirty 
miles  or  so  from  Rathmore.  Father  Connelly  knew 
intimately  one  of  the  parish  priests  there,  and  he 
occasionally  asked  the  good  man  to  preach  there  in 
his  church,  St.  Peter  and  Paul's.  Father  Michael 
himself  had  been  there  only  once  or  twice  and  knew 
but  little  of  the  place.  Yet  it  was  strange,  almost 
a  coincidence,  that  this  girl  should  come  from  a  town 
so  close  to  Rathmore  as  was  Lee.     Lee — that  .was 


THE   WOMAN  191 

where  his  father  had  purchased  the  threshing  machine 
which  had  been  the  wonder  of  Ballyporeen  for  nearly 
a  year.  He  remembered  the  day  that  the  old  man  had 
driven  over  to  Waterf  ord  and  thence  gone  up  by  train 
to  buy  it. 

As  soon  as  his  first  interest  in  this  incident  had  lost 
its  savour,  he  turned  to  his  own  letter  and  broke  open 
the  envelope.  It  was  from  the  parish  priest,  and 
his  face  was  forced  many  times  into  a  smile  as  he  read 
through  the  pages. 

"  Dear  Father  Michaei.,"  it  began — "  I  have  been 
trying  to  remember  whether  I  ever  wrote  a  letter  in 
my  life  before,  when  I  was  not  absolutely  compelled 
to  by  the  force  of  circumstances,  and  when  I  had  fin- 
ished writing  to  you  I  came  to  the  qpnclusion  that  this 
was  the  first  and  should  be  the  last,  for  since  I  have 
read  it  through  it  seems  the  greatest  nonsense — 
something  like  my  sermons,  I  suppose — that  was  ever 
put  from  a  pen  on  to  a  piece  of  paper.  You  may 
wonder  how  I  have  been  able  to  read  it  through  before 
I  have  begun  it  ;  but,  as  with  my  sermons — and, 
mind  you,  this  is  the  closest  of  secrets  between  us — I 
made  a  copy  of  it.  I  was  quite  expecting — and, 
mind  you,  I  am  quite  prepared  to  find  that  I  was  all 
wrong — that  the  first  few  days  in  your  change  of 
surroundings,  you  would  feel  considerably  on  the 
wrong  side  of  things.  Of  course,  I  am  only  speaking 
from  experience;  and  I  know  that  when  I  first  went 
abroad,  I  felt  like  a  chicken  with  a  brood  of  young 
ducks  who  is  wondering  what  in  the  name  of  goodness 
makes  them  able  to  swim;  and  it  struck  me  that 


192  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

probably  you  would  find  the  same  sort  of  thing  with 
the  French  language,  so  I  thought  a  little  of  my 
inferior  English — I  would  write  Gaelic,  but  you 
would  not  understand  it — might  be  a  little  cheerful 
to  you.  Mind  you,  I  know  that  you're  apt  to  worry 
over  things,  but  if  you  had  reared  the  cattle  and 
brought  up  the  crops  of  potatoes  that  I  have,  you 
would  know  there's  no  worry  in  this  world  but  what 
will  be  set  to  rights  in  the  next  season's  harvest.  If 
you  want  to  know  why  I  am  writing  all  this,  I  will 
tell  you.  Another  of  my  heifers  has  perished,  and  I 
had  to  ease  my  feelings  somehow,  so  I  thought  the 
best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  write  and  tell  you  not  to 
worry  because  you  find  yourself  in  a  strange  country. 
How  was  your  friend  the  Belfast  man?  I  think  you 
told  me  he  was  g,n  artist.  Are  you  sure  he  came 
from  Belfast?  You  ought  to  cultivate  him  if  he 
did,  because  he  is  the  first  man  from  that  city  who 
ever  achieved  the  distinction,  I  should  think.  Are 
you  sure  it  isn't  a  painter  he  is?  By  the  way,  Mr. 
Power  came  to  me  the  other  day  in  the  guise  of  the 
most  injured  man  in  this  country,  and  that  is  by  no 
means  an  easy  role,  mind  you.  He  told  me  you'd 
been  after  interfering  with  him  when  he  abused  little 
Annie  Foley  for  grazing  her  father's  cattle  on  his 
land.  Now,  maybe  you  did  right;  mind  you,  I'm 
not  denying  it,  because  I  only  heard  Mr.  Power's 
side  of  the  story,  which  was  a  long  one,  and  did  not 
seem  to  have  any  opposite  to  it  at  all.  He  said  that 
you'd  objected  to  his  using  the  language  he  did  to  a 
little  girl.  Well,  mind  you.  Father  Michael,  all  that 
sounds  very  well  if  we  were  in  high-class  society,  and 


THE   WOMAN  193 

I  dare  say  you  were  right — in  fact,  I  told  Mr.  Power 
you  were;  but  there  is  a  meting  out  of  justice  that 
has  not  always  got  a  highly  classical  dictionary  at  its 
elbow  to  refer  to,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  though  I  didn't 
say  so,  mind  you,  that  this  last  suited  the  case  in 
question.  I'm  only  telling  you  the  thing  for  your 
good,  because  I  know  you  did  it  out  of  kindly  feel- 
ing for  the  young  child.  But  the  only  way  to  treat 
the  weaker  people  and  the  weaker  sex  in  this  world 
is  to  have  as  Httle  sympathy  for  them  as  you  can 
spare.  If  sympathy  were  minted  and  stamped,  you'd 
find  that  people  would  think  a  great  deal  more  of 
you  for  giving  it.  Poor  little  Mary  Troy  died  quite 
suddenly  last  night.  She  slipped  down  the  cliff  up 
by  the  ruins  and  cut  her  head  open.  When  her 
mother  came  to  tell  me  of  it — and  I  was  right  out  at 
Ballysheen,  mind  you — I  had  to  ask  the  good  woman 
not  to  cry  so  much,  because  she  made  me  feel  quite 
silly  myself.  Good-bye  to  you  now,  and  let  me  see 
a  change  in  you  when  you  come  back — which  mind 
you,  I  don't  expect.     Yrs.  truly, 

"Thomas  Connelly.'* 

So  the  letter  ended  abruptly,  and  as  he  looked  up 
Mrs.  Warren  made  her  appearance  at  breakfast. 

*'  Letters  ?  "  she  said,  raising  her  eyebrows,  with  a 
smile.  "They've  soon  found  you  out.  I  never  get 
any  at  all  since  I  came  to  Duresne.  Oh,  here's  Roona 
— I  must  introduce  you." 

A  rustling  of  skirts  announced  the  approach  of 
Miss  Lawless,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  walked 
into  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

In  the  act  of  pulling  out  his  chair  under  the 
table,  Father  Michael  looked  up  as  Mrs.  Warren, 
formally  but  genially,  as  though  they  were  children 
of  her  own,  mentioned  their  names. 

Life  is  a  series  of  turning-points,  some  of  which  we 
pass  in  all  consciousness,  at  others  remaining  ig- 
norant that  another  aspect  of  things,  another  view 
of  the  future,  is  stretching  out  before  us.  And  it 
was  when  Father  Michael  looked  up,  recognizing  in 
Roona  Lawless  the  girl  whom  he  had  seen  and  dreamt 
of  in  London,  that  he  passed  a  turning-point  of  life, 
fully  realizing  that  a  fresh  landscape  was  before  him, 
but  utterly  unconscious  of  the  path  he  would  take  or 
whither  it  would  lead  him. 

It  was  impossible  to  grasp  the  situation  in  that  one 
small  moment  of  recognition — impossible  to  realize 
any  one  definite  sensation  amongst  the  many  that, 
like  a  crowd  of  children  freed  from  the  toils  of  school, 
with  rampant  haste  crushed  through  his  mind. 

But  there  was  one  thought,  one  idea  that,  above  all 
the  others,  struck  a  deeper  chord  upon  the  strings  of 
his  emotion.  He  had  thought  it  fate  that  she  should 
have  come  behind  him  in  the  queue  that  had  formed 
outside  the  theatre ;  he  had  thought  it  fate  when,  by 
her  announcement,  he  had  learnt  that  she  was  of  the 
same  religion  as  himself ;  but  how  far  greater,  deeper, 
and  more  subtle  a  degree  of  chance  it  was  that  she 

194 


THE    WOMAN  196 

should  be  Roona  Lawless,  the  art  student,  living  in 
the  very  same  house  with  him,  sitting  opposite  to  him 
at  the  breakfast-table,  and  looking  once  more  into 
his  eyes,  as  in  that  formal  moment  of  introduction 
she  was  doing  then! 

Over  all  other  ideas,  when  once  the  note  of  this  last 
was  sounded,  it  seemed  to  ride  predominant.  He  felt 
that  there  was  some  meaning  in  it.  He  knew  that  it 
had  not  been  brought  about  without  a  cause.  And 
yet,  when  she  held  out  her  hand  in  a  natural  sim- 
plicity of  friendliness,  even  this  last  thought  of  all 
was  bound  to  bend  its  neck  to  circumstance  and  take 
the  course  of  things  just  as  they  were. 

Accepting  the  facts  of  the  case  as  they  appeared 
upon  the  surface,  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  have  been  this  girl  as  well  as  any  other ;  and  yet, 
regarding  the  facts  of  the  case  as  he  saw  them,  deep 
down  in  the  heart  of  things,  could  he  have  imagined 
in  the  wildest  effort  of  his  thoughts  a  more  wonderful, 
more  telling  and  more  stirring  coincidence  than  this? 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile,  and  in  that 
queer  way  which  Fate  has  of  making  us  accept  her 
situations  with  the  rest  of  life  without  comment  or 
surprise  he  took  it  in  his. 

"How  d'you  do?"  she  said.  It  was  all  she  said. 
The  most  commonplace  and  usual  words  that  a 
person  can  utter ;  but  with  her  voice,  as  she  said  them, 
came  the  recollection  to  Father  Michael's  mind  of  all 
that  he  had  heard  her  say  before. 

At  first  when  he  sat  down  to  the  breakfast-table  his 
hand  was  shaking  and  his  sight  could  not  focus  itself 
to  the  proper  proportion  of  anything.     But  as  time 


196  THE  APPLE  OR  EDEN 

went  on,  the  realization  of  the  food  he  was  eating  and 
the  heat  of  the  coffee  on  his  tongue — such  httle 
natural  things  as  these — combined  with  the  bright- 
ness of  her  conversation  with  Mrs.  Warren  to  adjust 
the  natural  reason  of  his  senses ;  and  he  found  him- 
self putting  a  word  into  the  conversation  almost 
before  he  was  aware  of  his  intention  of  doing  so. 

So  this  third  meeting,  the  strangest  of  them  all, 
was  passed  over  and  fitted  itself  into  the  routine  of 
existence  as  births,  deaths,  marriages  and  all  the 
greater  events  of  life  will  do.  And  only  a  ripple 
disturbed  the  surface  of  the  stream  which  died  down 
after  a  few  circles  of  vibration  into  the  usual  and 
placid  state  of  affairs. 

"And  I  got  some  new  books,"  Roona  announced, 
after  she  had  recounted  all  that  had  befallen  her  in 
her  last  visit  to  London.  "  I  spent  about  twenty-five 
shillings  on  books,  and  now  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
go  without  another  new  hat  this  summer.  Well, 
it  can't  be  helped.  Hats  wear  out."  She  smiled 
across  the  table  at  Father  Michael. 

"  What  sort  of  books  do  you  read .'' "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  do  you  mean  what  did  I  buy  in  London  ?  " 

"If  you  like.  Yes.  What  books  did  you  buy  in 
London  ?  " 

She  made  a  mental  effort  to  remember  them  all 
and,  when  she  was  satisfied  with  the  result,  lifted  her 
head  with  a  jerk  so  that  her  red  hair  came  in  contact 
with  a  ray  of  sunshine  that  lit  it  up  into  burnt  gold, 
all  of  which  things  awakened  recollections  in  the 
mind  of  the  priest. 

"First    I    bought    an    edition    of    Browning.     A 


THE    WOMAN  Wi 

cheaper  one  has  not  long  been  out.  I  don't  mind 
the  cheaper  editions,  you  know.  Then  I  got  some- 
thing of  Swinburne.  Something  very  small,  because 
he's  alive.  Dead  poets  are  always  cheaper.  It  was 
some  selections  of  his.  Then  the  other  books,  I 
really  can't  remember  them  all,  but  I  know  they  cost 
twenty-five  shillings." 

"  You  never  read  philosophy  .? "  asked  Father 
Michael. 

"  Only  when  I  can  get  hold  of  it.  Philosophy's  so 
expensive." 

"  I  think  I  can  lend  you  some  books.  I've  got  one 
of  the  earlier  works  of  Mivart  in  my  box.  Mivart 
on  Truth." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  with  delight  at  the  prospect,  and  in 
a  moment  her  face  was  animated  with  an  expression 
of  pleasure. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
shall  never  do  any  work  so  long  as  Father  Everett's 
here,  Mrs.  Warren,  if  he's  going  to  take  me  through  a 
course  of  philosophy." 

"  That'll  probably  do  you  a  lot  more  good,  my  dear, 
than  poring  over  those  moist,  lead  colours  of  yours. 
I'm  sure  all  oil  paints  are  mixed  with  some  sort  of 
lead,  and  I  always  think  that  artists  will  be  poisoned 
to  death  if  they  live  long  enough." 

Neither  Roona  nor  Father  Michael  knew  anything 
about  the  matter  so  they  kept  silence. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  the  priest  announced 
his  intention  of  taking  his  first  long  walk  into  the 
country. 

"  I  want  to  investigate  those  woods,  Mrs.  Warren," 


198  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

he  said,  "  and  if  I  go  up  to  the  convent  every  morn- 
ing I  shan't  see  any  of  the  scenery  at  the  best  time 
of  the  day.  Moreover,  I  don't  want  to  worry  the 
Reverend  Mother." 

And  so,  Roona  having  gone  up-stairs  to  finish  her 
unpacking.  Father  Michael  put  on  his  hat  and,  turn- 
ing his  face  to  the  south-west  as  soon  as  he  got  out 
of  the  village,  started  off  on  his  excursion. 

Nothwithstanding  Aumonier  and  his  exhibition  of 
pictures,  notwithstanding  the  attraction  to  artists 
who  endeavoured  to  follow  in  his  steps,  Father 
Michael  took  but  little  heed  of  the  scenery  through 
which  he  passed.  His  mind  was  wrapped  up  with  the 
incident  of  the  breakfast-table,  and  it  had  been  rather 
his  intention  to  come  out  to  think  over  the  matter 
than  to  appreciate  any  of  the  scenery  which  Mrs. 
Warren  had  so  recommended  him  to  notice. 

Quite  suddenly,  as  he  walked,  he  realized  that  she 
could  not  have  seen  him  the  first  time  that  they  had 
met  in  London,  when  she  had  looked  into  his  eyes; 
or  he  had  made  practically  no  impression  upon  her 
mind,  for  she  had  not  shown  the  slightest  sign  of 
recognition  when  they  had  been  introduced.  He  sup- 
posed he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  would  attract 
her  attention  as  she  had  attracted  his. 

But  how  thoroughly  her  character  fell  in  with  his 
delineation  of  it  from  her  face!  She  was  unlike, 
absolutely  unhke,  the  rest  of  her  sex.  What  girl  of 
twenty-one  or  twenty-two,  which  ever  she  might 
happen  to  be,  would  take  the  interest  in  serious 
matters  of  life,  such  as  philosophy,  as  he  did?  He 
was  afraid,  nevertheless,  that  he  had  given  way  to 


THE   WOMAN  199 

impulse  when  he  had  offered  to  lend  her  his  Mivart. 
As  she  had  already  anticipated,  it  would  probably 
lead  to  his  coming  more  frequently  into  contract  with 
her  than  he  intended  should  be  the  case.  Perhaps 
he  ought  to  avoid  that.  He  did  not  tell  himself 
why.  It  is  quite  possible  that  he  would  have  been  un- 
able to  give  any  satisfactory  answer  had  he  been 
asked. 

In  this  way  his  thoughts  led  him  through  the 
country,  and  there  was  not  one  that  fastened  itself 
upon  his  mind  which  did  not  bear  upon  Roona 
Lawless  and  the  existence  that  she  had  suddenly 
made  for  herself  in  his  consideration. 

In  one  who  had  never  taken  into  account  the 
presence  of  women  in  the  scheme  of  things  such  a 
state  of  mind  may  seem  incongruous.  But  one 
factor  should  be  considered  when  question  is  made  of 
it.  As  with  the  sprig  of  a  tree,  the  blade  of  grass, 
anything  of  nature  that  grows  by  natural  laws,  so 
with  the  human  mind.  It  is  a  slow  and  laborious  pro- 
cess to  twist  it  into  unnatural  and  contorted  shapes, 
yet  when  left  alone  it  will  return  to  its  original  out- 
line with  a  greater  ease  and  celerity  than  was  found 
in  the  effort  to  contort  it. 

And  it  was  so  with  the  mind  of  Father  Michael. 
Bent  into  an  abnormal  condition  of  unnatural  intro- 
spection he  was  beginning  in  the  quiet  simplicity  of 
his  surroundings  to  relax  into  that  state  of  mind 
which  can  only  be  described  as  healthy.  Not  that 
it  is  meant  to  convey  that  his  mental  contemplation 
of  Roona  Lawless  or  of  any  woman  is  naturally  the 
normal  condition  of  thought  for  a  priest  of  his 


200  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

Church,  but  that  in  considering  her  existence  he  lost 
for  the  first  time  all  sight  of  himself  and  his  mor- 
bidity. And  so  it  is  from  this  point  onward,  that  a 
change  will  be  seen  in  Father  Michael ;  a  change  that 
will  bring  him  on  to  the  more  rational  level  of  man- 
kind, and  fit  him  for  a  more  interesting  place  in 
story. 

After  he  had  been  walking  for  an  hour  and  more,  he 
came  so  far  into  the  contemplation  of  commonplace 
things  as  to  look  at  his  watch.  It  needed  but  forty 
minutes  to  the  hour  at  which  Mrs.  Warren  expected 
her  guests  to  be  ready  for  dinner,  and  he  faced 
quickly  about  to  make  the  journey  back. 

But  facing  about  does  not  always  point  to  home, 
and  when,  after  walking  for  some  time  through  the 
woods  he  could  not  find  a  path,  or  even  see  in  the 
distance  any  sign  of  the  church  spire,  he  came 
to  the  inevitable  conclusion  that  he  had  lost  his 
way. 

Seen  from  the  upper  windows  of  the  convent,  the 
country  through  which  he  had  passed  showed  no 
visible  signs  of  intricacy  of  arrangement,  yet  it  was 
not  the  first  time  that  a  visitor  to  Duresne  had  lost 
himself  in  the  woods  behind  the  village. 

Having  wandered  for  some  time  with  no  result 
through  the  thick  brambles  and  closely-growing 
trees,  he  consulted  his  watch  again.  Fifteen  minutes 
had  slipped  away,  and  it  was  now  useless  to  think 
that  he  could  get  back  in  time  for  the  meal.  There 
was  nothing  left  to  be  done,  he  decided,  but  to  con- 
tinue aimlessly  in  his  rambling,  trusting  entirely  to 
chance  to  bring  him  into  the  right  path. 


THE    WOMAN  201 

This  lasted  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  when, 
coming  noiselessly  across  an  open  space  of  grass,  to 
which  the  sun  had  lent  the  warmth  and  richness  of 
its  light,  he  saw  Roona  Lawless,  her  back  turned 
towards  him,  sketching  by  a  little  stream  that  made 
its  way  out  of  a  dense  growth  of  copse-wood  into  the 
sudden  light  of  the  sun. 

Her  hat  was  off,  lying  on  the  ground  by  her  side, 
and  she  was  seated  on  a  small  artist's  stool,  in  front 
of  her  easel.  Every  moment  as  she  turned  to  the 
palette,  which  rested  on  her  arm,  to  dip  her  various 
brushes  into  the  daubs  of  colour,  he  saw  the  bare 
outhne  of  her  cheek,  which,  when  the  light  fell  on  it, 
looked  like  ivory  set  in  copper. 

For  a  moment  he  watched  her  without  changing 
his  position,  studying  all  her  actions  oblivious  of  his 
own  existence.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen,  the 
first  time  he  had  realized  the  individuality  of  a  woman, 
and  he  was  unconsciously  marvelling  at  it.  It  was  as 
though,  sleeping  alone  on  a  bed  of  earth  in  the  wild 
and  solitary  silence  of  some  Garden  of  Eden,  he  had 
been  wakened  by  the  master  hand  of  some  omnipotent 
power  and  shown  the  existence  of  a  companion,  the 
presence  of  a  woman,  and  as  yet  had  not  forgotten 
his  surprise. 

From  the  moment  that  he  had  seen  this  girl  in 
London,  though  he  himself  had  been  quite  unaware  of 
of  the  change,  his  physical  faculties  had  begun  to 
grow  by  themselves,  as  in  his  youth  his  mental 
qualities  had  developed.  Nature  had  first  asserted 
her  rights  upon  his  nerves ;  now  she  had  changed  her 
tactics,  and  having  found  an  object  wherewith  to 


202  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

work,  was  commencing  to  issue  her  commands  upon 
his  senses. 

When  these  few  moments  had  passed,  with  no 
conscious  struggle  of  resistence  in  his  mind,  he 
crossed  the  space  between  them,  making  as  much  noise 
as  he  could,  in  order  to  attract  her  attention. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

RooNA  looked  up  quickly  from  her  easel  and 
turned  round. 

"You,  Father!"  she  exclaimed.  "Mrs.  Warren 
told  me  you  were  coming  back  to  dinner." 

"  So  I  was  until  about  an  hour  ago.  Then  I  dis- 
covered that  I'd  lost  myself,  and  I've  been  trying  to 
find  my  way  ever  since." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  questioning  whether  he 
really  meant  what  he  said,  then,  seeing  that  he  was 
speaking  the  truth,  she  laughed.  The  same  expres- 
sion came  into  her  eyes  which  he  had  seen  that  day 
in  Regent  Street.  But  he  did  not  understand  that  it 
merely  impKed  the  lightness  of  her  spirits  and  was 
intended  to  convey  nothing  of  the  intimacy  which 
others,  before  Father  Michael,  had  fancied  they  had 
seen  in  it. 

She  was  one  of  those  creatures  of  natural  condi- 
tions, who  feel  life  as  plainly  as  the  athlete  feels  the 
beating  of  his  heart  after  a  race;  as  keenly  as  the 
swimmer  feels  the  warmth  of  his  own  blood  when  he 
emerges  from  the  water. 

From  her  very  earliest  days  it  had  always  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  conscious,  sensitively  conscious  of 
every  minute  as  it  passed.  It  was  not  that  she 
thought  introspectively  in  these  moments,  but  that 
she  was  supremely  aware  of  her  own  presence  and  its 
existence.  And  when  she  was  in  good  spirits,  a  state 
of  mind  that  was  common  to,  if  not  persistent  with 

908 


204.  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

her,  the  knowledge  of  it  always  found  expression  in 
her  eyes. 

Green  eyes  are  deceptive.  They  often  look  more 
than  they  mean  to  convey.  Some  for  the  sake  of 
boldness,  or  maybe  it  is  to  rhyme  a  couplet,  have  said 
that  they  are  destined  for  hell.  But  whatever  truth 
there  is  in  this  statement,  Roona's  eyes,  excepting 
perhaps  her  hair,  were  the  most  attractive  features 
that  she  had.  As  they  might  have  said  of  them  in 
her  own  country — "Her  eyes  weren't  made  for  the 
good  of  her  sowl " — and  if  the  goodness  and  peace  of 
the  soul  do  lie  in  the  eyes  then  there  would  have  been 
truth  in  the  saying.  Her  mouth  was  usually  in  a 
serious  setting,  and,  though  the  lips  were  deep- 
coloured  with  a  subtle  fascination  of  their  own,  it 
was  her  eyes  that  held  all  the  expression  in  her  face. 

And  it  was  into  her  eyes  that  she  found  Father 
Michael  mostly  looked. 

In  the  first  moment  of  seeing  her  that  morning  at 
the  breakfast-table  his  pale  face  and  long  features, 
sensitive  mouth  and  deep-set  eyes  had  made  no  great 
impression  on  her.  She  had  heard  that  he  was  a 
priest  from  Ireland;  what  part  she  had  not  been 
sufficiently  interested  to  ask.  But  as  a  priest  he  had 
possibly  seemed  a  little  different  from  what  she  had 
expected.  Otherwise  she  had  accepted  his  presence 
at  Mrs.  Warren's  as  one  is  forced  to  accept  the  exist- 
ence of  many  of  the  people  whom,  in  moving  across 
this  "  chequer  board  of  nights  and  days,"  chance 
throws  in  our  way.  And  so  she  had  intended  to 
accept  him  until  that  moment  when  she  turned 
suddenly  and  saw  him  looking  down  into  her  eyes. 


THE    WOMAN  205 

Women  have  instinct,  men  have  it  too,  but  one 
possesses  an  entirely  different  quality  from  the  other. 
With  a  man  it  is  nervous,  hysterical,  with  a  woman 
it  is  natural.  And  with  Roona,  as  she  looked  up  into 
the  priest's  eyes,  full  of  the  intentness  of  his  interest 
in  her,  her  instinct  was  perfectly  natural  and  unpre- 
meditated. She  felt  intuitively  that  she  influenced 
him.  She  knew,  as  deeply  as  belief  could  give  her 
knowledge,  that  he  was  drawn  towards  her,  and  the 
first  thought  of  him  as  a  priest  of  God,  when  the 
realization  came  upon  her,  was  one  of  almost  horror 
— ^horror  that  was  neither  loathing  nor  disgust,  but 
the  horror  of  fear  which  one,  holding  a  sacred  vessel 
of  the  Church,  must  feel  lest  it  should  fall  and  be 
broken. 

She  did  not  gloat  over  the  knowledge.  She  did  not 
feel  inclined  for  one  moment  to  glory  in  the  power 
over  him  which  she  thought  she  possessed.  In  fact, 
with  an  almost  nervous  timidity  she  plunged  wildly 
into  conversation,  hoping  to  distract  his  mind  and  her 
own  at  the  same  time. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  give  you  some  of 
my  sandwiches,"  she  remarked,  bending  down  quickly 
to  avoid  the  drawn  look  in  his  eyes  which  with  almost 
puerile  unconsciousness  he  did  not  seem  to  realize  was 
there.  At  the  moment  when  she  had  turned  and 
seen  him  standing  by  her  side  she  had  observed  that 
same  appearance  in  the  very  pose  of  his  body,  a  sort 
of  servile  obedience,  and  had  »»  little  understood  the 
real  significance  of  its  meaning  then  as  she  did  now. 

"  I  always  bring  some  sort  of  a  meal  with  me  when 
I  come  out,"  she  went  on,  drawing  some  sandwiches 


«06  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

from  a  tin  box.  "  You  know  you  couldn't  get  back 
in  less  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour  from  here. 
Duresne's  nearly  four  miles — very  nearly." 

"  But  you  won't  have  enough  to  eat  if  I  take  some 
of  these.?" 

"Oh,  I  shall,  Father.  I've  got  a  good  many  more 
than  I  really  want." 

She  halved  the  little  bundle,  giving  him  one  portion, 
and,  laying  the  rest  on  her  lap,  put  her  palette  on  to 
the  grass. 

Then  they  began  their  meal,  Father  Michael  stand- 
ing by  her  side.  When  he  grew  tired  of  the  attitude 
he  seated  himself  on  the  grass  a  few  feet  away  from 
her,  leaning  for  support  against  the  withered  stump 
of  a  tree.  It  was  an  ideal  place  for  such  an  im- 
promptu meal.  No  sound  of  human  life  was  within 
hearing.  Only  the  pattering  of  the  stream  over  the 
pebbly  bottom,  the  chirping  of  birds  that  waited  in 
the  branches  of  the  trees  for  the  meal  that  was 
already  being  left  for  them,  and  that  incessant  yet 
almost  imperceptible  hum  of  insect  life  which  seems 
to  breathe  out  of  the  very  earth  itself,  came  sooth- 
ingly to  their  ears.  And  overhead,  changing  with  its 
wondrous  alchemy  the  green  leaves  into  gold,  the  sun 
burnt  in  the  heavens,  paling  all  the  colours  of  the  sky 
into  a  bleached  and  cloudless  blue. 

"  I  never  knew  I  was  so  hungry,"  he  said,  looking 
up  at  her  with  a  smile  after  he  had  finished  the  first 
sandwich.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
if  I  hadn't  come  across  you." 

"  Did  you  think  that  when  people  went  out  sketch- 
ing they  lived  on  nothing  ?  " 


THE    WOMAN  207 

"  No,  I  fancy  they  eat  a  good  meal  when  they  can 
afford  one." 

"  Art's  so  poorly  paid — is  it  ?  "  she  asked  ingenu- 
ously. 

*'  No ;  I  mean  from  what  I've  heard,  it's  not  that 
it's  so  poorly  paid,  but  that  there's  so  little  of  it." 

She  laughed  and  looked  down  at  him.  He  was 
watching  her  as  she  put  the  food  into  her  mouth. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  a  little  more  about  your 
reading,"  he  said  when  he  had  finished  the  last  sand- 
wich. Manlike  he  had  satiated  his  appetite  as 
quickly  as  he  could.  He  could  not  dally  over  and 
enjoy  its  satisfaction  as  she  was  doing. 

"  Well?  What  sort  of  reading?  "  She  felt  uncom- 
fortably self-conscious  each  time  that  she  raised  the 
food  to  her  mouth. 

"Who  is  Browning?" 

He  was  sublimely  ignorant  of  what  she  would  think 
of  this  question. 

"Browning?"  she  repeated — it  seemed  incredible. 
*'Why  he's  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived.  The 
only  man  who  could  talk  in  verse  or  rhyme  a  truism 
without  your  knowing  that  he'd  done  it." 

"  What  poems  has  he  written  ?  "  he  asked  vaguely. 
*'  You'll  have  to  forgive  my  ignorance,  but  where  I 
come  from  we  don't  hear  of  poets.  Tell  me  the 
names  of  some  of  them."  He  said  all  this  to  raise 
himself  in  her  estimation.  He  knew  he  had  fallen, 
though  he  could  not  believe  it  to  be  over  so  small  a 
matter.  His  question  might  have  entailed  a  lengthy 
answer,  but  she  only  repeated  the  names  of  those  that 
were    her    favourites,    and    "  Night  and  Morning," 


208  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

though  one  of  the  shortest,  she  declared  she  liked 
the  best. 

"  What  is  that  one  about  ?  "  he  asked.  His  interest 
in  her  was  monopolizing  his  thoughts.  He  could 
not  see  where  he  was  drifting,  did  not  realize  in  fact 
that  he  was  drifting  anywhere  at  all.  There  was 
none  of  that  usual  routine  of  duties  to  remind  him  of 
his  calling.  His  office,  every  day  since  he  had  gone 
away  on  his  holidays,  he  had  read  through  before 
breakfast,  and  it  was  not  that  he  ever  lost  sight  of  his 
calling  as  a  priest,  but  merely  that,  in  the  absence  of 
his  duties  as  one,  he  had  found  another  side  of  life, 
another  phase  of  existence  to  be  full  of  an  absorbing 
interest. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  taken 
notice  of  any  one  to  the  oblivion  of  his  own  person- 
ality, and  it  chanced  quite  naturally  that  this  person 
was  a  woman — was  Roona  Lawless.  Her  being  of 
another  sex  made  the  interest  more  vital  because  it 
was  stranger  to  his  mind. 

She  repeated  the  poem  to  him  word  for  word,  and 
when  she  came  to  the  last  lines — 

"  And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me," 

she  had  almost  forgotten  his  existence,  though  he 
was  doubly  aware  of  hers. 

"  And  is  that  your  favourite  poem  ?  " 

*'  I  really  think  it  is.     It's  one  of  the  simplest." 

He  looked  at  her  critically. 

"  I  suppose  there  must  be  something  wanting  in 
me,"  he  said  after  a  pause.     "  But  in  the  little  that  I 


THE   WOMAN  «0d 

have  read  of  verse" — in  calling  it  verse  he  uncon- 
sciously imitated  her,  such  literature  had  never  been 
anything  but  plain  poetry  to  him  before — "it  has 
always  seemed  to  me  that  the  writer  goes  such  a  long 
way  round  to  say  so  very  little." 

"Little?"  She  crumpled  up  the  paper  that  had 
contained  the  sandwiches  and  threw  it  away  into  the 
thick  growth  of  brambles.  "Why  in  that  poem 
there's  more  of  a  story  than  half  the  writers  of  prose 
could  put  into  a  hundred  pages." 

His  eyes  watched  her  with  admiration  as  she  spoke. 
To  him,  with  his  very  limited  knowledge  of  those 
sides  of  life  which  are  known  by  that  crude  definition, 
artistic,  she  seemed  extraordinarily  clever.  It  was 
not  that  kind  of  cleverness  which  crams  French, 
Latin  and  Greek  into  a  mind  fit  for  millinery  and 
gains  for  its  final  ambitipn  in  a  woman  the  distinction 
of  being  an  M.A.  That  cleverness  he  had  no  sym- 
pathy with.  But  this  was  intellect  of  quite  another 
class,  and  the  perception  of  it  in  her  appealed  to  him. 
And  so,  even  more  unconsciously  in  this  intellectual 
appreciation  than  in  his  admiration  of  her  bodily 
attractions,  he  was  drawn  still  further  towards  her. 

Yet,  though  it  was  unconscious  in  him,  he  displayed 
the  most  obvious  signs  of  it  to  her,  and  her  mind 
was  in  a  bewilderment  of  apprehension. 

She  would  not  encourage  it,  because  she  felt  sure 
that  sooner  or  later  he  would  come  to  realize  its 
existence.  But  at  the  same  time,  with  the  need  of 
companionship  which  she  sometimes  felt  in  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  surroundings,  it  was  certainly  a  relief  to 
the  monotony  of  things.     And  what  woman  is  there 


^10  THE  APPLE   OF  EVEN 

who  will  repel  the  obvious  admiration  of  a  man,  if  he 
be  the  only  one  within  calling?  If  she  did  buy  books 
instead  of  a  new  hat  she  was  still  sufficiently  a  woman 
to  appreciate  being  found  interesting. 

It  was  quite  another  question  whether  she  found 
Father  Michael  as  interesting  as  he  found  her;  it 
was  moreover  a  question  that  she  had  not  thought  of 
asking  herself.  He  was  certainly  remarkably  simple. 
Imagine  his  seeing  no  story  in  "Night  and 
Morning"  ! 

"  Can't  you  see,"  she  went  on,  "  there's  almost  a 
lifetime  of  story  in  it,  though  it  does  only  spread  over 
one  night  and  morning  ?  " 

"Then  what  is  the  story?     Tell  it  to  me." 

She  looked  down  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Tell  it  to  you?  I'll  lend  you  my  Browning  so 
that  you  can  read  it  for  yourself  until  you  see  all  the 
story  that  there  is.  Then  you  can  tell  it  to  me 
instead." 

"Very  well.  You  lend  me  your  Browning  and  I'll 
lend  you  my  Mivart." 

She  laughed.  "  Fancy  having  read  Mivart  and  not 
Browning." 

He  smiled  up  into  her  face. 

"  Fancy  having  read  Browning  and  not  Mivart,"  he 
retaliated;  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  an  expres- 
sion of  humorous  intelligence  in  his  eyes,  and  it 
attracted  her. 

From  that  moment  she  treated  him  no  longer  as  the 
child  that  he  had  seemed  at  first,  but  rather  as  one 
who  has  come  from  another  sphere  of  intellect  prob- 
ably higher  than  her  own  and  finds  himself  awkward 


THE   WOMAN  211 

and  out  of  his  element  in  the  shallower  water.  She 
was  by  no  means  one  of  those  importunate  members  of 
her  sex  who  claim  an  assertive  superiority  over  a  man. 
But  the  more  they  talked  together,  the  more  she  met 
him  in  the  casual  way  at  breakfast  and  the  other 
meals  of  the  day,  the  less  she  used  the  appellation — 
"Father."  For  as  time  went  on  she  grew  accus- 
tomed to  his  clerical  garb  and  began  to  look  upon  him 
as  the  ordinary  man,  since  she  had  never  met  him  in 
his  professional  capacity.  Familiarity,  so  they  say, 
breeds  contempt,  but  that  is  not  the  only  child  of 
her  womb.  Roona  had  no  contempt  for  Father 
Michael's  calling.  Had  he  once  held  up  his  hand  in 
the  act  of  blessing  she  would  have  stopped  aghast  at 
the  famiharity  with  which  she  treated  him;  but  as 
there  was  no  call  for  him  to  perform  his  priestly 
duties  she  forgot  that  he  was  anything  but  a  man 
amongst  men.  He  gave  her  no  opportunity  to  treat 
him  as  anything  more  than  that. 

She  quite  realized  after  a  day  or  two  of  his  acquaint- 
ance that  he  was  clever,  probably  exceptionally  so. 
But  in  what  exact  direction  she  was  not  destined  to 
discover  until  she  had  seen  him  officiating  as  the 
priest.  This  knowledge  certainly  increased  her 
interest  in  him.  He  always  gave  her  the  impression 
that  a  clever  mathematician,  in  learning  to  paint, 
would  give  to  an  artist.  He  seemed  unconsciously  to 
be  concentrating  his  mind  upon  a  subject  that  was 
utterly  new  to  him,  and  try  as  she  might  she  could 
not  arrive  at  that  side  of  his  mind  which  she  felt 
instinctively  to  be  far  superior  to  her  own.  He 
stayed  with  her  for  some  Uttle  time  after  they  had 


m  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

finished  the  sandwiches  and  their  conversation  wan- 
dered over  a  whole  range  of  subjects,  from  poets  to 
the  more  commonplace  things  of  life.  At  last,  when  it 
had  reached  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and  she  had 
opened  up  to  him  yet  another  interest  in  the  works  of 
men  other  than  philosophers,  she  insisted  upon  his 
returning  as  quickly  as  possible  for  fear  Mrs.  Warren 
should  grow  uneasy  about  him. 

Very  reluctantly  he  rose  from  the  grass  and,  re- 
ceiving instructions  as  to  the  quickest  way  he  could 
take,  set  off  for  Duresne.  Before  he  was  quite  out 
of  sight  he  turned  round  for  the  last  time  to  look  at 
her.  She  saw  the  action ;  took  it  all  in  and  realized 
exactly  how  much  it  meant  in  him.  But,  as  she  did 
not  take  her  hand  from  the  canvas  or  perceptibly  lift 
her  head,  he  fancied  that  she  had  not  noticed  him. 

In  another  moment  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  when 
there  was  no  longer  an  opportunity  of  watching  her 
his  steps  quickened,  and  in  twenty  minutes  or  so  he 
saw  the  village  spire  and  the  white  walls  of  the  con- 
vent rising  up  into  the  distance. 

A  great  many  different  points  of  the  view  of  life 
came  to  his  mind  during  that  return  walk  to  Duresne. 
Amongst  others  the  example  of  St.  Aloysius  fell 
heavily  to  the  ground.  It  might  have  been  possible, 
he  argued,  in  excuse  for  its  destruction,  to  have 
avoided  the  face  of  one's  own  mother  in  the  days  of 
that  particular  saint,  yet  he  must  have  been  strangely 
susceptible  to  the  faces  of  women  when  he  was  driven 
to  such  an  extreme  of  precaution  as  that. 

In  these  latter  days,  when  a  priest  must  pay  after- 
noon visits  to  one  and  all  of  his  parishioners  of  both 


THE    WOMAN  ^13 

sexes  and  principally  the  weaker  of  the  two,  it  was 
obviously  impossible  to  follow  such  an  example. 
Then  again,  was  it  unchaste  to  find  an  interest  in  con- 
versation with  a  girl  whose  ideas  were  out  of  the 
common  rut  of  her  kind  ?  Might  he  not  just  as 
likely  have  met  her  and  found  the  same  interest  in  her 
amongst  those  parishioners  upon  whom  he  was  ex- 
pected to  call? 

He  admitted  that  she  did  interest  him,  but  then 
Father  Connelly  had  often  said  he  had  not  a  sufficient 
diversity  of  interests  in  life.  He  sought  too  much 
after  the  philosophy  of  books,  and  left  too  much 
alone  the  philosophy  of  nature.  In  the  future  he 
would  avoid  that.  He  would  take  more  interest  in 
the  things  and  people  around  him. 

It  was  not  human,  it  was  not  natural  to  closet  one- 
self with  one's  own  personality  and  see  nothing  what- 
soever of  the  outer  world.  Had  he  wished  to  do  that 
he  would  have  become  a  monk.  But  it  had  been  his 
ambition  to  be  a  priest.  Many  boys  are  expected  by 
their  parents  to  be  priests  without  any  particular 
choice  of  their  own.  They  are  brought  up  to  antici- 
pate it.  But  he,  of  his  own  wish,  had  longed  to  join 
the  Church.  The  longing  had  grown  firmly  and 
fixedly  in  his  mind  from  the  moment  when  he  had 
heard  his  father  and  mother  speaking  of  it  in  the 
kitchen  at  Ballyporeen. 

In  Ireland  it  is  a  great  and  glorious  thing  to  be  a 
priest.  It  spells  power.  It  means  local  omnipotence 
to  sway  a  whole  community  with  one  wave  of  the 
hand.  He  had  wished  to  be  a  priest,  to  teach  those 
who  had  not  leamt  as  yet;  yet  how  could  he  learn 


214  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

the  mind  of  others,  to  lead  and  teach  them,  if  he  shut 
himself  away  from  the  world  and  its  kind?  He  felt 
in  that  one  conversation  with  Roona  Lawless  he  had 
looked  further  into  a  woman's  nature  than  he  had  ever 
seen  before. 

Yes,  undoubtedly  he  had  made  one  great  mistake, 
and  Father  Connelly  had  proved  himself  right  after 
aU. 

It  was  from  nature  Itself  that  nature  was  to  be 
learnt,  and  all  the  philosophies  of  Mivart,  Ward  or 
the  Jesuit  series  on  the  manuals  of  philosophy  could 
not  teach  him  life — only  the  way  to  live  when  he  had 
learnt  what  life  was. 

Father  Connelly  had  seen  what  life  was.  He  had 
found  It,  as  he  had  often  said,  in  the  potato  crop  and 
the  wheat  yield — in  the  rearing  of  cattle  and  the 
cares  of  agriculture.  But  as  Father  Michael  had 
declared,  and  it  was  a  truthful  declaration,  we  can't 
all  grow  potatoes.  He  was  not  a  farmer.  He  would 
learn  it  from  humaji  kind  and,  closing  his  eyes  as  he 
walked,  he  said  a  prayer  for  guidance. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

It  was  quite  Impossible,  living  In  the  same  house  as 
they  were  doing,  for  them  not  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
each  other;  and  Mrs.  Warren  in  her  matronly  way 
persisted  in  persuading  Father  Michael  to  take 
Roona  in  hand. 

Not  that  these  persuasions  had  any  particular 
power  with  him  beyond  being  the  means  of  allaying 
the  occasional  tremors  of  conscience  that  were  apt  at 
night  to  question  the  wisdom  of  his  friendship  with 
this  girl  who  had  stirred  him  so  deeply  the  first  time 
they  had  met.  But  the  act  of  living,  of  having  their 
meals  together  In  the  same  house,  shattered  all  these 
questions  in  the  morning.  It  was  all  so  different 
from  the  moments  when  he  had  seen  her  suddenly  and 
then  as  suddenly  lost  sight  of  her.  That  had  been 
foolish — emotional.  There  was  no  scope  for  emotion 
in  this  quiet,  every-day  life.  And  so  he  stilled  his 
conscience  with  the  sedative  of  reason. 

There  were  times,  almost  every  day,  when  he  paid 
a  visit  to  the  convent  and  talked  with  his  sister  or 
the  Reverend  Mother.  In  the  short  period  of  his 
acquaintance  with  the  latter  he  found  that  he 
really  preferred  her  conversation.  She  was  one  of 
those  quiet  women,  who  seem  to  have  chosen  her  life, 
not  from  the  persuasion  of  custom,  but  with  the 
deeper  purpose  which  orders  the  coming  and  going 
of  events  with  mental  precision  and  regularity. 

315 


216  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

On  these  occasions,  bearing  Mivart's  philosophy 
under  her  arm,  her  easel  and  other  impedimenta  in 
her  hands,  Roona  would  set  off  for  the  woods  or  the 
grey-green  marshland,  whichever  happened  to  be 
most  interesting  to  her  at  the  time,  and  thither 
Father  Michael  would  make  his  way  as  soon  as  the 
duties  of  the  nuns  compelled  him  to  leave  the 
convent. 

In  return  for  Mivart  she  had  lent  him  her  new  copy 
of  Browning,  in  which  he  had  read  "  Night  and  Morn- 
ing" so  many  times  that  he  not  only  knew  it  off  by 
heart  but  had  built  up  the  story  for  himself.  The 
careful  study  of  those  sixteen  lines  had  brought  him 
the  discovery  that  poets  can  sometimes  hide  the 
deepest  meaning  in  the  fewest  words.  In  its  entirety 
*'  Night  and  Morning "  seemed  to  describe  Bally- 
poreen  as  no  other  words  in  no  other  way  could  have 
drawn  its  picture;  and  after  the  first  night  of  his 
reading  it,  he  had  come  to  Roona  and  told  her  that 
he  would  not  have  thought  it  was  possible  to  make 
words  so  beautiful. 

"But  the  story.?"  she  had  asked  him.  "That  is 
the  most  beautiful  part  of  it  all." 

And  when  he  had  returned  to  it  that  night,  he 
suddenly  perceived  lying  between  the  lines  the  story 
of  Molly  the  maid-of-all-work,  as  though  the  author 
had  known  and  placed  it  there.  So  it  became  doubly 
dear,  if  not  more  beautiful.  He  had  never  forgotten 
the  unhappy  girl's  kindness  to  him,  or  the  last  words 
that  she  had  said  when  he  had  overtaken  her  depart- 
ing figure  on  the  high  road. 

Thus  they  found  one  point  in  common,  and  when 


THE    WOMAN  217 

it  came  to  the  study  of  Mlvart,  he  discovered  that  she 
was  marvellously  perceptive  and  wonderfully  quick  in 
grasping  the  gist  of  his  most  abstruse  theories.  And 
all  of  these  things  added  links  to  the  chain  which  was 
to  drag  his  manhood  out  before  his  eyes. 

One  day,  being  compelled  to  leave  the  convent 
sooner  than  he  expected,  he  overtook  Roona  on  her 
way  to  the  woods.  She  turned  as  she  heard  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps,  the  eagerness  of  which  he  was 
doing  his  utmost  to  conceal. 

She  waited  for  him  to  come  up  with  her  and  then, 
when  he  had  reached  her  side,  she  looked  up  quickly 
into  his  face. 

"Why  do  you  always  come  after  me  in  the  morn- 
ing ?  "  she  asked. 

The  abruptness  of  her  question .  took  the  smile  of 
eagerness  from  his  eyes,  leaving  an  expression  of 
sensitive  concern  that  twisted  his  upper  lip. 

"  You  object  to  it?  "  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"  No,  but  you  implied  it." 

"  I  didn't  intend  to." 

"  Then  why  did  you  ask  it? " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  know  your  reason." 

He  looked  down  at  the  broad  toes  of  his  boots,  and 
as  he  raised  his  eyes  he  realized  that  she  was  carrying 
at  least  three  cumbersome  articles  in  her  hands. 

"  I'm  terribly  thoughtless,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Let  me 
carry  your  easel." 

"You  can  carry  all  that  I  am  carrying  on  onQ 
condition." 

^'Whatisthatr- 


218  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

"That  you  answer  the  question  I  asked  you." 
This  was  a  consciously  unselfish  effort  on  Roona's 
part  to  bring  Father  Michael  to  the  realization  of  the 
direction  in  which  he  was  drifting.  She  had  gone 
over  the  whole  matter  in  her  mind  the  night  before, 
and  it  was  not  that  she  really  offered  to  understand 
the  deeper  reason  of  his  continual  attentions  but  she 
knew  that  he  was  being  drawn  into  a  state  of  infatu- 
ation for  her.  It  would  be  quite  ephemeral,  no 
doubt,  but  could  that  excuse  the  fact  of  her  knowl- 
edge that  is  was  there?  Yet,  after  all,  what  was  it 
to  her.?  She  found  him  greatly  interesting,  even 
amusing  at  times  when  he  was  in  good  spirits.  How 
could  she  be  rendered  accountable  for  what  he  was 
so  obviously  doing  of  his  own  free-will,  without  any 
encouragement  on  her  part.f*  He  was  not  a  fool, 
he  was  not  a  child.  But  there  she  was  mistaken. 
He  was  both.  She  had  read  her  Browning  and  she 
should  have  known — 

"  Yet  think  of  my  friend  and  the  burning  coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  I " 

If  the  verse  did  occur  to  her  mind  for  a  moment  it 
was  the  first  half  of  it  and  not  the  second  that  she 
quoted  to  herself — 

"'Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  soiils. 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own." 

Still  her  conscience  had  not  permitted  her  to  sleep 
until  she  had  promised  herself  to  make  one  eflPort  to 
bring  him  to  his  senses.  He  was  drifting — drifting 
headlong — as  the  twig  is  hurled  onward  in  the  eddies 


THE   WOMAN  219 

of  the  mountain  torrent,  and  she  was  unable  to  tell 
whether  or  no  that  rushing  stream  led  to  still  water. 
And  if  it  were  still,  then  it  would  be  sure  to  be  deep. 

It  was  not  for  her  own  sake  that  she  wished  to 
make  the  effort,  for  she  was  just  as  much  fascinated 
by  the  danger  as  he  was.  But  he  was  a  priest  of  the 
Holy  Church  and  she  was  a  CathoUc,  and  the  sin  of 
it  all  frightened  her.  Moreover,  whereas  he  was 
blind,  her  eyes  were  open,  and,  to  quiet  the  persistence 
of  her  conscience,  she  had  promised  to  herself  that  at 
least  she  would  try.  This  question  of  hers,  then,  was 
the  effort  and,  feeling  that  she  had  not  done  her  duty 
until  it  was  answered,  she  persevered  in  order  to 
receive  his  reply. 

"Ask  me  again,"  he  said  doggedly.  "What  was 
it?" 

She  hid  her  amusement  at  his  awkward  evasion 
and  kept  the  serious  expression  of  her  lips. 

*'  Why  do  you  always  come  after  me  in  the  morn- 
ing?" she  repeated  mechanically. 

He  walked  along  quietly  by  her  side  and  for  a  time 
said  nothing.  He  was  sure  his  attentions  annoyed 
her,  and  acting  at  last  on  this  thought,  he  said, 
"You'd  rather  that  I  didn't  come?     I  worry  you?" 

A  frown  crossed  Roona's  eyes.  This  was  not  what 
she  wanted  or  expected.  If  he  were  going  to  imagine 
that  she  had  spoken  entirely  from  her  own  point  of 
view  then  her  good  intention  would  be  wasted. 

Then,  again,  was  that  her  point  of  view?  It  was 
not.  She  knew  that.  His  presence  did  not  worry 
her ;  but  beyond  that  she  would  not  permit  herself  to 
go.     She  thought  of  him  only  as  a  friend,  though 


220  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

instinct  told  her  that,  did  she  but  lift  her  little  finger 
to  him,  he  would  be  at  her  feet,  and  it  seemed, 
whenever  the  thought  did  cross  her  mind,  that  he 
would  be  a  lethargic  lover.  But  a  lethargy  of  pas- 
sion did  not  appeal  to  her. 

She  was  one  of  those  women,  or  would  become  so, 
who  pray  for  the  brutality  of  a  man  and  his  strength 
— ^for  the  cruel  pain  rather  than  the  happy  ease  of 
pleasure. 

And  so,  when  she  found  that  instead  of  being 
answered  in  her  question,  she  had  become  the  object 
of  his,  it  was  hard  to  know  which  way  to  turn. 

"  I've  never  said  that  you  worried  me,"  she  replied. 
**  Besides  that  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  what  I 
asked  you." 

"Then  what  am  I  to  answer.?  I'm  not  over-fond 
of  being  by  myself." 

Her  lips  tightened  on  each  other,  but  he  did  not 
notice  in  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  the  deeper  under- 
current of  disappointment,  of  almost  humiliating  re- 
gret at  the  explanation  that  he  had  given.  She  even 
began  to  fancy  that  all  her  surmises  about  his  attrac- 
tion to  her  had  been  wrong. 

"  Well,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  that  is  your  answer. 
That  is  what  I  wanted." 

"How  do  you  mean.?"  he  asked  quickly.  Intui- 
tively he  realized  that  he  had  been  misunderstood. 

"There  is  no  one  else  to  talk  to.  One  must  pass 
the  time  somehow  or  other,  naturally.  Of  course,  I 
understand." 

"  I  don't  think  you  do." 

He  looked  down  at  her  encumbrances. 


THE   WOMAN  ftStl 

"  Won't  you  let  me  carry  your  easel  now?  " 

She  held  her  head  a  little  higher. 

"  Oh  no,  thanks.     It's  quite  light." 

He  had  so  far  learnt  of  women  from  her  as  to  know 
that  in  some  way  he  had  displeased  her,  but  in  what 
way  he  was  not  sufficiently  possessed  of  conceit  as  to 
guess.  It  never  struck  him  that  in  what  he  had  said 
she  had  considered  he  was  not  paying  her  enough 
attention;  in  fact,  he  still  clung  to  the  impression 
that  his  constant  companionship  annoyed  her.  So, 
determining  to  discover  the  real  reason  of  the  sudden 
change  in  her  manner,  he  put  his  idea  into  plain 
speech. 

"  If  you'd  rather,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  back  to  Duresne 
now." 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  a  pity  ?  You'd  be  thrown  back 
upon  yourself.  You'd  have  no  one  to  talk  to,"  and 
her  expression  was  a  little  bitter  when  she  smiled. 

They  had  just  come  to  a  glen  rich  with  hart's 
tongue  and  other  ferns.  She  stopped  and  opened  her 
easel.  Then  planting  it  in  a  preliminary  attitude, 
she  settled  her  stool  preparatory  to  beginning  to 
sketch. 

He  stopped  as  well,  but,  whilst  there  was  hesitation 
in  his  action,  a  petulant  decision  was  plainly  evident 
in  hers.  In  a  business-like  way,  as  though  she  were 
almost  unaware  of  his  presence,  she  took  the  little 
bottle  of  turpentine  and  the  paint-box  from  her 
satchel  and  placed  them  on  the  stool  by  her  side. 
With  each  action  he  felt  the  more  poignantly  the 
expression  of  her  annoyance  and  imagined  vividly  all 
the  words  that  they  were  meant  to  convey. 


222  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

As  soon  as  she  had  seated  herself  he  began  to  turn 
away. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go,"  he  said  tentatively. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  want  to,"  she  replied. 

She  would  not  look  up  at  him.  In  her  own  mind 
she  fancied  that  she  was  adding  one  discouragement 
to  another.     At  least  that  was  what  she  hoped. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  not  fond  of  being  by 
yourself,"  she  added.  "  Mrs.  Warren  is  sure  to  be 
busy.     Of  course  there's  the  convent." 

"  I've  been  to  the  convent  this  morning." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  had  better  go  back.  I'm  an 
exceedingly  bad  makeshift  in  the  way  of  conversation, 
I  know." 

He  turned  sharply,  seeing  at  last  where  he  had 
offended  her. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  repeating  the  reason  you  gave  for  coming 
with  me  every  morning." 

"  I  never  said  that  you  were  a  makeshift." 

"  No,  those  weren't  your  exact  words.  But  you 
implied  it,  Father.  You  implied  that  you  talked  to 
me  because  there  was  nothing  else  to  do — no  one 
better  to  talk  to." 

She  purposely  called  him  "Father,"  because  she 
imagined  that  in  the  tacit  acquiescence  which  he  had 
shown  to  her  omission  of  the  appellation  he  would  be 
offended. 

"  No  one  better  to  talk  to .'' "  he  repeated.  If  she 
really  thought  that  she  would  probably  never  allow 
him  to  come  with  her  in  the  mornings  again. 

He   glanced   at  her  quickly.     She  was   painting 


THE    WOMAN  223 

energetically.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  intensely 
engrossed  in  her  work.  He  was  certain  that  she 
despised  him,  and  with  this  assurance  the  whole  of 
his  holiday  appeared  suddenly  to  be  darkened. 

Excepting  Father  Connelly,  whose  views  of  life  he 
had  not  ever  agreed  with,  he  had  made  no  friend  but 
this  girl  in  the  whole  course  of  his  existence.  He  had 
always  put  philosophy,  his  own  capacities  for  teach- 
ing others  and  his  mission  to  teach  first  and  foremost 
in  his  life.  He  had  never  thought  that  there  could 
be  so  much  interest  in  the  society  of  another ;  yet  here, 
through  the  foolishness  of  his  inconsiderate  words,  it 
seemed  that  he  was  about  to  forfeit  all  this  new-found 
enjoyment  which  had  come  into  his  holiday  and  his 
life. 

"Do  you  think  then,"  he  began  quickly  in  self- 
defence,  "  that  I  come  out  here,  or  wherever  you  may 
be  going,  morning  after  morning,  thinking  to  myself 
that  as  there's  no  one  better,  I  may  just  as  well  talk 
to  you?  When  I  said  that  I  was  not  over-fond  of 
being  by  myself,  did  you  think  that  I  would  prefer 
conversation  indiscriminately  with  any  one  at  alLf"' 

*'  That  was  what  I  gathered  from  what  you  said." 

She  was  determined  that  she  would  not  give  way  to 
him  at  once.  He  had  certainly  hurt  her  feelings,  and 
in  her  desire  to  show  him  that  she  was  offended  she 
forgot  her  intention  to  make  him  aware  of  his  own 
state  of  mind. 

"  But  can't  you  believe  me  when  I  assure  you  that  I 
did  not  mean  that  ?  " 

"  If  I  do  believe  you  then  I  am  still  without  an 
answer  to  my  question." 


£24  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  looked  up  at  her  as 
she  was  working. 

"  Supposing  I  were  to  tell  you  a  lot  ,about  myself," 
he  said  impulsively,  "would  it  worry  you  very  much 
to  listen  ?  " 

Roona  looked  down  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"  It  would  interest  me  very  much  indeed.  I  don't 
understand  you  in  the  least,  and  I'm  dreadfully 
curious." 

*' Curious  about  what?" 

"You." 

"Me.?" 

A  thrill  of  exhilarating  excitement  passed  through 
him. 

"What  about  me.?" 

Up  to  the  present  he  had  found  all  his  delight  in 
listening  to  her  and  her  quaint  little  stories  about 
herself;  now  suddenly  a  new  pleasure  was  being 
drawn  into  his  existence,  the  fascinating  pleasure  of 
talking  about  himself  to  a  sympathetic  listener. 

"Oh,  everything  about  you.  Mostly  what  you 
think  about.  I  often  think  that  perhaps  underneath 
all  your  pretended  ignorance  of  the  books  and  the 
things  that  I  like,  you're  really  awfully  clever  in  your 
own  way." 

She  looked  down  into  his  eyes  and  laughed  gently. 
It  was  what  many  women  would  have  said  to  encour- 
age a  man  to  talk  about  himself  if  they  were  inter- 
ested in  that  subject.  Roona  was  far  from  being 
the  exception  that  he  thought  she  was.  She  pos- 
sessed no  real  originality  of  mind.  It  was  merely 
that  he  had  discovered  humanity  for  the  first  time  in 


THE    WOMAN  225 

his  life.  It  chanced  to  be  in  her,  and  it  was  quite  his 
mistake  to  think  that  she  was  an  exception  to  her  sex. 

But  when  she  laughed  into  his  eyes  he  could  not 
laugh  in  return.  All  sense  of  feeling  rose  suddenly 
in  his  throat  and  the  veins  swelled  spontaneously 
upon  his  forehead. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  clever,"  he  tried  to  say  inconsequently. 

He  was  sure  that  she  had  not  noticed  his  confusion, 
but  she  had  and  very  hastily  returned  to  her  painting. 

"  You  say  that,"  she  said  quickly,  "  but  I  don't  think 
you're  the  best  judge  in  the  world  on  that  particular 
matter." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  she  could  not  trust  her- 
self to  look  at  him  again. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently,  "aren't  you 
going  to  begin?  " 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

Father  Michael  laughed. 

"When  you  put  it  that  way,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
know  how  to." 

He  was  doing  his  utmost  to  control  the  feeling  of 
self-consciousness  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 

"I  thought  it  was  all  going  to  be  by  way  of 
answering  my  question,"  she  said  encouragingly. 

"  Well,  so  it  shall  be,"  and  he  began. 

But  this  narrative  of  introspection  was  far  from 
being  as  egotistical  as  he  had  intended.  The  attrac- 
tion to  him  of  hearing  her  speak  of  herself  was  still 
predominant,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  note  of 
conversation  was  changed. 

"You  want  to  know  why  I  come  along  so  often 
with  you  when  you're  sketching  ? "  h6  commenced. 
"I  told  you  it  was  because  I  liked  to  talk  to  you. 
That's  quite  true.  Do  you  know.  Miss  Lawless, 
you're  the  only  interesting  woman  I've  ever  met." 

The  words  seemed  extravagantly  bold  to  him  as 
he  said  them,  and  the  using  of  her  name  which  he 
employed  only  on  such  very  few  occasions  made  them 
appeal  directly  to  her.  Yet  with  a  truly  feminine 
ambition  she  combated  his  statement  that  he  might 
strengthen  it  by  contradiction. 

"  Oh,  but  that's  quite  silly.  I'm  absolutely  common- 
place.    And  I'm  by  no  means  all  I  might  be." 

It  seemed  that  she  spoke  definitely  of  something 
226 


THE   WOMAN  227 

in  her  conscience,  for  having  added  the  last  sentence, 
which  was  evidently  an  afterthought,  she  sighed. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  be  quite  satisfied  with  what 
you  are,"  he  said,  as  she  had  hoped  he  would.  "I 
couldn't  possibly  find  you  more  interesting." 

His  compliments  were  clumsy,  but  they  were  com- 
pliments. 

"You  always  apply  that  word — Interesting — to 
me,"  she  said.     "Why?" 

He  shifted  his  position  as  though  he  were  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  Do  I  ?     It's  the  one  that  comes  first  to  my  mind." 

"I  don't  think  any  one — ever  found  me  Interesting 
— ^before." 

She  was  plying  her  brush  at  a  delicate  moment 
so  that  her  sentence  was  broken,  and  so  simply  was 
it  said  that  he  failed  to  see  the  trap  she  had  unin- 
tentionally laid  for  him. 

"But  people,  surely  other  people,"  he  objected, 
"  have  shown  you  that  they  were  Interested  In  you  ?  " 

He  was  thinking  of  her  companion  In  London. 

"Probably,  but  no  one  ever  went  so  far  as  to  say 
I  was  Interesting.  I  never  thought  that  men  found 
women  Interesting." 

"Then  what  did  they  tell  you  you  were.'*" 

It  was  very  gradual  but  very  sure,  this  placing  of 
himself  upon  the  level  of  all  mankind.  So  gradual 
that  he  did  not  for  a  moment  realize  the  existence 
of  it.  Yet  it  led  him  Into  the  expression  of  thoughts 
that  he  would  not  have  dared  to  utter  at  any  other 
time.  He  was  dazed  by  the  pleasure  of  the  actual 
moment,  intoxicated  by  this  mad,  new  interest  In 


£28  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

life.  To  talk  to  a  woman  his  own  thoughts  as  they 
came  into  his  mind,  to  escape  from  that  saying  of 
things  that  he  was  not  actually  thinking  about,  and 
to  be  listened  to  with  a  sympathy  that  he  had  never 
known  before — a  sympathy  gentle,  ever  alluring, 
which  only  a  woman  can  possess — it  was  all  very  won- 
derful, very  strange  and  very  new.  Father  Michael 
was  being  lost  in  the  whirlpool  of  its  enchant- 
ment. 

The  great  change  had  come  over  him  at  last.  Nature 
had  insisted  upon  her  right  and,  despite  all  his  ascet- 
icism, had  looked  to  it  that  she  was  obeyed.  She 
had  cast  him  into  a  trance,  administered  to  him  her 
most  powerful  narcotic — pleasure — and,  whilst  he 
was  slumbering  under  the  influence  of  the  drug,  she 
had  made  a  man  of  him. 

"  What  did  they  tell  you  you  were?  "  he  repeated. 

*'  Oh — a  lot  of  very  stupid  things." 

"  Tell  me  one." 

"That  I  was  pretty." 

It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  say  without  the  evidence 
of  conceit,  yet  it  could  not  have  been  said  more 
unaffectedly. 

He  looked  at  once  at  her  face.  Into  her  eyes,  for 
she  had  turned  with  a  laugh  in  his  direction  when 
she  had  said  it. 

"  Now,  wasn't  that  silly  ?  "  she  added. 

He  felt  suddenly  as  though  his  mind  was  being 
contorted  with  the  violence  of  his  thoughts — as 
though  it  were  a  wet  rag  which  was  being  twisted  to 
wring  the  last  drop  of  water  from  its  texture — as 
though  like  a  string  it  was  being  drawn  taut  until 


THE    WOMAN  829 

with  the  persistent  strain  it  must  inevitably  snap  in 
two.  Yet  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  hers  and  he  could 
not  draw  them  away. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  was  stupid  ?  "  she  repeated. 

He  began  to  speak,  but  his  voice  was  thick.  He 
coughed.     Then  he  began  again. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  silly  to  me." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is.     I've  got  such  horrid  red  hair." 

*'  Why  do  you  call  it  horrid  .'* " 

"Because  I  hate  it.  I'm  sure  people  laugh  at  me 
for  it." 

"I  don't." 

"Perhaps  you  don't.  But  then  it  doesn't  matter 
to  you  what  colour  it  is." 

"  It  was  the  first  thing  I  noticed  about  you." 

"When?     At  breakfast  that  morning.'"' 

"No." 

"  But  that  was  the  first  time  you  saw  me.** " 

"  No  it  wasn't." 

"  It  wasn't.     When  did  you  see  me  before  then  ?  " 

"  In  London." 

Her  cheeks  suddenly  became  scarlet.  She  did  not 
know  why.  She  could  not  have  said  why.  And  then 
in  that  moment  she  understood  or  partially  guessed 
why  his  interest  in  her  had  seemed  so  sudden.  He 
had  seen  her  before,  when  or  how  she  did  not  know. 
And  yet  why  should  that  have  created  for  him  the 
attraction  he  had  found  in  her.''  Unless  he  had  seen 
her  frequently.     Had  he  seen  her  frequently.'' 

"  You  saw  me  in  London ! "  she  exclaimed  in  her 
surprise. 

"  Twice !     Once  in  that  principal  street — ^I  forget 


230  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

its  name.  The  other  time  you  were  behind  me  in 
the  queue  at  the  Globe  Theatre." 

At  any  other  time  he  would  have  hesitated  before 
he  let  her  know  that  he  had  been  to  a  theatre,  but 
now  he  was  carried  away  by  his  eagerness  to  tell  her 
that  he  had  seen  her  before. 

"  Was  I  with  any  one.?  " 

"A  man.     I  didn't  notice  him." 

"And  didn't  I  see  you.'"' 

"I  suppose  not,  though  you  smiled  right  into  my 
face  when  I  saw  you  first  in  the  street." 

"  Did  I  really  ?  Fancy  my  not  seeing  you !  And 
then  you  saw  me  again  at  the  Globe,  wasn't  that 
strange.'"' 

"  In  a  way — ^yes." 

"  Why  in  a  way .''     It  was  quite  a  coincidence." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  a  coincidence." 

He  was  trying  to  conquer  the  desire  to  tell  her 
why,  yet  he  longed  to  do  so  with  all  his  heart,  and 
knew  that  finally  he  would.  He  wanted  her  to  know 
that  he  had  gone  there  solely  to  see  her.  It  seemed 
natural  to  wish  to  tell  her.  Why  should  he  not  tell 
her? 

"  Wasn't  a  coincidence ."^     How  do  you  mean?  '* 

Her  eyebrows  were  raised  almost  unnaturally. 

"When  I  saw  you  in  the  street  I  heard  you  say 
that  you  were  going  to  the  Globe." 

"  You  heard  me  say.?    And  then  you  came.?    Why?  " 

He  rose  uneasily  to  his  feet.  The  stress  of  circum- 
stances was  urging  itself  against  him.  He  knew  if 
he  gave  a  reason,  he  must  tell  her  the  truth,  and  now 
he  did  not  want  to — felt  afraid  to.     It  seemed  that  he 


THE    WOMAN  231 

was  being  hemmed  in  on  every  side  and,  as  in  a 
nightmare  of  sleep,  he  would  have  run  away  only 
his  body  felt  incapable  of  the  action. 

"  Why  ?     But  why  ?  "  she  persisted. 

He  had  turned  away  from  her  and  was  looking  down 
through  the  field  of  bracken  and  hart's  tongue  that 
stretched  away  to  where  the  broad  country  opened 
out  like  the  drop  scene  of  a  play.  But,  though  it 
all  reflected  itself  in  his  eyes,  he  saw  nothing  of  it 
in  his  mind.  He  felt  he  was  in  danger.  It  was  not 
that  he  knew  what  he  would  do,  or  what  he  would 
say.  Wild  and  inconsequent  things  entered  into  his 
mind.  He  remembered  his  dream  of  her — not  by  any 
means  for  the  first  time — how  he  had  taken  her  in 
his  arms,  crushed  her  and  kissed  her.  But  that 
had  been  a  dream,  only  a  dream.  If  in  a  moment  of 
madness  he  were  to  do  that  now,  of  course  she  would 
spurn,  hate  and  despise  him. 

But  he  was  afraid.  He  could  frame  no  definition 
of  what  he  really  desired,  but  still  he  was  afraid  of 
himself.  And  all  these  thoughts,  as  in  the  manner 
of  dreams  which  are  supposed  in  one  moment  to  pass 
and  vanish  with  all  the  perfection  of  their  detail,  flew 
tlirough  his  mind  in  the  one  second  that  he  looked 
away  from  her. 

But  when  she  insisted  again  upon  an  answer,  he 
suddenly  faced  her. 

"  Miss  Lawless,"  he  said  quickly,  speaking  at  ran- 
dom, yet  with  a  fuU  conception  in  his  mind  of  what 
he  wanted  to  convey,  "I  think — I  think  I  ought  to 
be  getting  back  to  Duresne." 

And  not  considering  how  hi?  action  might  appear 


232  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

in  her  eyes,  only  seeking  to  free  himself  from  the 
maelstrom  of  his  expressionless  desires,  he  turned 
without  another  word  and  left  her  to  gaze  after  his 
receding  figure  as  he  pushed  his  way  through  the 
high-grown  ferns. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

That  night  at  tea,  which  in  Mrs.  Warren's  estab- 
lishment was  the  last  meal  of  the  day,  Father  Michael 
was  unusually  silent.  Generally  at  these  times,  when 
they  were  all  together,  the  priest  was  frequently  the 
brightest  among  them;  so  much  so,  that  those  who 
had  known  him  in  Rathmore  would  scarcely  have 
recognized  him  as  the  same  man.  But  that  night 
he  seemed  to  have  fallen  back  into  the  old  manner 
which  characterized  all  his  actions  in  the  place  where 
he  was  priest. 

With  Roona  herself,  when  he  had  left  her  sitting 
before  her  easel  and  tramped  his  way  out  of  her 
sight,  there  had  been  more  amazement  than  any  other 
sensation  in  her  mind.  She  could  only  surmise  that 
he  had  suddenly  realized  his  position  in  the  drifting 
current  of  their  conversation  and  had  been  ashamed 
of  it.  That  was  the  only  construction  that  she 
could  place  upon  the  pecuharity  of  his  behaviour. 

It  would  not  have  entered  her  mind  that  he  had 
fled  from  a  greater  temptation.  She  had  lived 
amongst  the  priesthood  in  Ireland  for  the  whole  of 
her  life  where  such  things  were  never  heard  of, 
certainly  not  talked  about.  It  would  have  seemed 
incredible  to  her  that,  like  an  ordinary-minded  man, 
he  could  really  have  wanted  to  crush  her  in  his 
arms.  He  had  felt  their  conversation  tending  towards 
channels  that  were  too  personal,  and  in  his  own  in- 

S33 


E34  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

experienced  and  uncouth  way  he  had  put  an  end 
to  it. 

Once  or  twice  their  eyes  met  across  the  table,  but 
invariably  his  were  the  first  to  fall.  It  Is  a  character- 
istic of  the  celibate  that  he  cannot  look  for  long  in 
the  eyes  of  another. 

"  What  were  you  painting  to-day,  Roona  ?  "  Mrs. 
Warren  asked  brightly,  with  an  effort  to  quicken  the 
flagging  conversation. 

Roona  controlled  the  Inclination  to  cast  a  glance 
in  Father  Michael's  direction.  Had  she  done  so,  she 
would  have  found  that  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  sedu- 
lously on  the  plate  before  him. 

"  Just  a  small  scene  in  the  woods — oils." 

The  answer  was  not  encouraging,  and  Mrs.  Warren 
turned  to  the  priest. 

"  Have  you  seen  it,  Father  ?  "  she  asked  imperturb- 
ably. 

"Yes— oh  yes." 

He  passed  his  cup  awkwardly  for  more  tea. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her  work  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  that's  not  fair ! "  Roona  interposed,  smihng. 

That  smile  relieved  the  tension  of  the  moment. 
Father  Michael  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"Why  not  fair.?"  he  asked.  "Surely  it  doesn't 
matter  when  an  opinion  is  given,  so  long  as  it's  a 
true  one." 

"  But  the  person  whose  work  the  opinion  is  on 
ought  not  to  be  present." 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  silly,  Roona.     It'll  do  you  good." 

Mrs.  Warren  had  a  fixed  belief  in  the  efficacy  of 
contradiction  to  make  conversation,  and  so  long  as 


THE    WOMAN  235 

her  boarders  were  engaged  in  friendly  argument,  she 
felt  her  responsibilities  at  rest. 

**  You  mean  it's  sure  to  be  a  poor  one,"  said  Roona. 

**Well,  I'll  ease  your  mind  on  that  score.  Miss 
Lawless,"  the  priest  joined  in.  "  I  have  a  friend  who 
is  supposed  to  be  a  very  good  artist ;  I've  seen  a  lot 
of  his  work,  and  it's  not  nearly  so  good  or  so  healthy 
as  yours." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"I  don't  mind  the  good — ^but  the  healthy  seems 
rather  doubtful.  A  healthy  picture  is  always  what 
you  expect  it  to  be.  If  it's  a  sunset  it's  red  and 
yellow,  and  if  it's  a  river  or  a  stream  it  always  has  a 
plank  bridge  and  three  cows  up  to  their  knees  in 
the  water.  It's  a  nice  way  of  saying  that  a  person  is 
no  artist.     You  don't  think  my  work  original.?  " 

"There  I'm  no  judge." 

"  Father  Everett's  like  me,"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  "  he 
thinks  good  what  he  likes." 

"  Then  it's  all  good,"  he  replied,  "  excellent,"  and 
just  at  that  moment  the  maid  came  in  with  a  letter 
which  she  laid  by  Roona's  side. 

Father  Michael,  presumably  occupied  with  his  tea, 
saw  a  look  of  annoyance  pass  over  her  face  as  she 
began  to  read.  For  a  moment  of  speculation  his 
mind  flew  to  her  companion  in  London,  but  then  on 
the  envelope  which  she  had  laid  on  the  table  he  saw 
the  French  stamp  and  Paris  postmark. 

Almost  jealously  he  wondered  whom  she  knew 
there,  but  having  learnt  so  little  of  her  circumstances, 
he  felt  supposition  to  be  useless.  Accordingly,  when 
his  tea  was  finished  he  made  his  excuses  and  left  the 


286  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

room.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  hall,  he  put  on  his 
hat  and  started  for  a  solitary  walk. 

Directly  he  was  gone  Roona  rose  from  her  chair, 
crumpling  the  letter  up  in  her  hand. 

"  I  have  to  go  to  Paris  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Warren," 
she  announced.  "Isn't  it  a  horrid  nuisance?  Just 
when  I  wanted  to  finish  my  sketch.  I  shall  never 
get  the  same  light  three  days  rrmning."  Her  dis- 
appointment was  perfectly  genuine. 

Mrs.  Warren  sympathized  with  her  as  well  as  she 
was  able.  Going  to  Paris  seemed  a  luxury  to  her, 
and  personally  she  would  scarcely  have  been  disap- 
pointed at  being  obliged  to  go,  even  had  she  been 
painting  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world.  She  loved 
Paris. 

"Perhaps  you'd  be  able  to  do  a  little  painting 
before  you  leave .'' "  she  suggested. 

"  Oh  no,  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while.  Some  one 
has  come  over  from  Ireland  to  see  me.  I've  got  to 
meet  them  at  the  Louvre  at  half -past  two,  so  I  might 
just  as  well  go  in  the  morning.  I'll  go  by  the  eight- 
thirty,  the  ten  is  too  slow.  I  shan't  want  a  proper 
breakfast,  so  you  needn't  worry  about  getting  up 
early.     Jeanne  will  get  me  something  to  eat." 

"  As  you  like,  dear,"  Mrs.  Warren  agreed,  and  soon 
after  ten  o'clock,  having  written  some  letters,  Roona 
went  up  to  her  room. 

There  was  an  entrance  to  the  back  as  well  as  to  the 
front  of  Mrs.  Warren's  house.  The  former  led 
through  the  garden  full  of  the  flowers  at  which 
Father  Michael  had  looked  that  first  morning  when 
Roona  came  down   to   breakfast.     The  little  path 


THE   WOMAN  287 

that  bisected  the  close-cropped  lawn,  terminated  in  a 
coloured-glass  door  which  opened  on  to  a  passage 
connecting  the  back  with  the  front  of  the  house. 

At  the  other  end  of  this  well-cultivated  little  patch 
of  land,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  high,  thick,  yew 
hedge  there  ran  a  lane  that  led  eventually  to  the  road. 
Down  this,  passing  quietly  through  the  wicket  gate, 
for  which  an  archway  had  been  cut  in  the  yew  hedge. 
Father  Michael  came  after  his  walk.  He  shut  the 
gate  gently  after  him.  It  was  quite  dark,  just  after 
ten  o'clock,  and  he  knew  that  the  noise  of  the  closing 
gate  might  disturb  Mrs.  Warren's  peace  of  mind. 
She  was  always  imagining  that  that  unpretentious 
entrance  would  one  day  prove  to  be  temptation  for  a 
night  marauder. 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  go  straight  into  the 
house  and  then  to  bed,  but  the  somnolent,  suggestive 
scent  of  the  tobacco  plants  that  mingled  seductively 
with  the  odour  from  the  tall  lavender  bushes  induced 
him  to  step  acros  the  piece  of  lawn  and  sit  down  on 
the  garden  seat. 

The  cool  air  of  the  evening  combined  with  the 
energy  of  his  walk  had  succeeded  in  supplying  that 
healthy  stimulant  to  his  mind  which  the  cold  bath 
brings  to  the  body. 

He  stretched  his  legs  out  before  him,  and  throwing 
back  his  head  looked  up  into  the  sky  towards  the 
broad  belt  of  stars  that  marked  the  path  of  the  Milky 
Way  through  the  blackness  of  the  heavens. 

He  had  often  watched  that  broad  road  of  the  night 
dusted  white  with  its  myriad  of  stars  when  at  similar 
times  he  had  walked  on  the  strand  at  Rathmore.     It 


238  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

all  carried  with  it  to  his  mind  a  great  sense  of  famil- 
iarity such  as  only  the  stars  are  able  to  bring.  It  is 
little  to  be  wondered  at  that  these  lanterns  of  the 
sky  are  the  friends  of  those  men  who  go  down  to  the 
great  sea  in  little  ships ;  for  wherever  on  the  broadest 
and  loneliest  ocean  they  may  be,  yet  the  stars  they 
have  seen  shining  over  the  roofs  of  their  own  cottages 
at  home,  for  ever  find  a  place  in  the  great  firmament 
above  their  heads ;  always  present,  always  constant. 

He  would  soon  be  back  again  in  Rathmore,  he 
pondered — soon  back  amongst  the  old  duties,  and 
then  all  this  strange  newness  of  life  that  had  been  so 
pleasant  would  be  gone,  perhaps  for  ever. 

He  wondered  whether  he  would  miss  it,  for  though 
he  had  read  philosophy,  he  was  no  philosopher  of  life. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  way  we  live  is  utterly 
subservient  to  the  prime  factor  of  living.  Broken 
hearts  are  hard  to  find.  It  is  only  when  one  man 
gives  up  all  for  the  sake  of  the  world  and  the  world 
despises  him  that  the  blood  is  turned  to  water  and 
the  heart  snapped  in  twain. 

Short  as  his  holiday  had  been  Father  Michael  could 
not  fuUy  realize  that  he  would  so  soon  be  returning 
to  his  duties  as  priest — celebrating  Mass  morning 
after  morning  at  the  convent — hearing  confession 
every  Friday  and  Saturday — doing  all  the  things 
that,  until  he  had  gone  away  for  his  holidays  had 
seemed  to  make  up  the  entire  horarium  of  his  exist- 
ence. And  all  this  with  no  other  companionship  than 
that  of  Father  Connelly. 

He  felt  sure  that  he  would  miSs  these  daily  conver- 
sations with  Roona  Lawless.     By  his   action   that 


THE    WOMAN  239 

afternoon  he  had  certainly  admitted  to  himself  that 
they  were  dangerous,  unwise;  yet  there  on  that  seat 
in  the  garden,  In  the  cool,  calculating  air  of  the  night, 
it  all  appeared  very  foolish  and  weak-minded. 

He  imagined  Platonic  friendship  to  be  quite  a 
feasible  state  of  affairs.  But  he  did  not  take  Into 
consideration  that  the  writer  of  the  Republic  was 
almost  fifty  years  of  age  when  he  had  completed  that 
work,  whereas  Father  Michael  was  but  twenty-six. 

Other  than  the  poet  there  are  classes  of  men  who 
are  born  and  not  made.  Celibates  and  philosophers 
are  amongst  them. 

However,  he  did  not  think  of  these  things.  He 
began  to  gain  confidence  in  the  belief  that  when  he 
went  back  to  Rathmore,  she  would  have  no  further 
effect  upon  him.  But  when  a  man  takes  a  seat  in  the 
tribunal  of  his  mind  upon  his  own  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings he  hears  only  one  side  of  the  question.  The 
other  that  he  ignores  is  left  to  the  ever-watchful  pen 
of  the  recording  angel. 

He  had  been  seated  for  scarcely  ten  minutes  In  the 
garden  when  the  sudden  light  of  a  match  in  one  of  the 
upper  windows  at  the  back  of  the  house  attracted  his 
attention.  At  first  he  could  see  but  indistinctly  the 
hand  that  held  the  light,  as  the  person,  whoever  it 
might  prove  to  be,  waited  for  the  sulphur  to  burn 
itself  out  and  the  wood  to  break  properly  into  flame. 

As  it  did  so,  flashing  up  In  the  first  moment  of  com- 
bustion, he  felt  his  heart  hang  as  though  suspended 
in  Its  action  and  a  cold  breath  blow  on  to  his  temples ; 
just  as  they  feel  who  hear  a  strange  and  jarring  noise 
In  the  loneliness  of  the  night. 


^40  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

It  was  Roona. 

She  was  going  to  bed. 

He  watched  her  as  one  who  watches  the  reflection 
of  his  fate  in  the  blackened  mirror  of  the  magician. 
He  saw  her  hght  the  two  unburnt  candles  that  stood 
on  the  dressing  table.  He  followed  her  slightest 
action  as,  raising  her  hands  over  her  shoulders,  she 
began  to  unfasten  the  hooks  of  her  blouse  behind  her 
back. 

Then  he  felt  the  sweat  break  out  over  his  hands 
and  forehead.  He  told  himself  to  get  up  and  go,  but 
his  body  refused  to  stir.  He  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  pressing  his  fingers  mercilessly  into  his  eyes  as 
though  he  were  blinding  himself  to  the  sight  of  the 
approach  of  some  terrible  calamity. 

She  would  be  sure  to  draw  the  curtains,  he  kept  on 
telling  himself.  But  Duresne  is  a  quiet,  country 
village,  and  when  he  looked  up  again  the  blinds  were 
still  undrawn,  Roona  was  still  standing  before  the 
table. 

She  had  divested  herself  of  her  blouse,  but,  without 
any  further  attempt  to  undress,  had  commenced  the 
taking  down  of  her  hair. 

On  one  side  it  was  falling  down  in  folds  like  twisted 
copper  that  the  air  has  tarnished  brown,  and  through 
the  richness  of  its  tresses  he  could  see  the  soft,  cream- 
white  skin  and  the  fulness  of  her  shoulders,  for  her 
arms  were  bare.  This  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  he  had  seen  a  woman. 

Under  the  ordinary  circumstances  of  nature,  by 
which  Father  Michael  cannot  be  reasonably  judged 
as  yet,  what  would  another  man  have  done.?     Such 


THE   WOMAN  U\ 

things  must  often  occur  in  this  cramped  existence  of 
ours,  where,  as  Herr  Teufelsdrockh  would  say,  we  are 
packed  hke  salted  fish  in  a  barrel,  upon  whom  he,  in 
the  altitude  of  his  attic  alone  with  the  stars,  looked 
down  in  wonder. 

There  are  two  feasible  things  that  a  natural-minded 
man  would  have  done.  He  would  have  laughed  to 
himself  and  watched  the  matter  through,  considering 
that  it  was  more  or  less  of  a  joke;  or  he  would  have 
gone  away,  not  caring  to  take  advantage  of  what  the 
principal  actor  in  this  little  dumb  show  would  most 
assuredly  wish  to  avoid. 

But  in  failing  to  exhibit  the  qualities  of  a  natural- 
minded  man.  Father  Michael  did  neither  of  these  two 
things. 

Mankind  is  not  naturally  virtuous  and  likewise  it 
must  be  said  that  mankind  is  not  naturally  vicious. 
Rather  it  is  neutral,  becoming  virtuous  with  the 
concrete  knowledge  of  and  distaste  for  vice,  and 
vicious,  with  the  concrete  knowledge  of  and  distaste 
for  virtue. 

And  so  it  was  that,  knowing  but  little  indeed  of 
vice  by  an  intimate  contact  of  temptation  with  it, 
Father  Michael  was  not  truly  virtuous ;  no  more  than 
in  his  knowledge  of  virtue  was  he  truly  vicious,  since 
that  virtue  which  he  did  know  of  he  had  no  distaste 
for. 

So,  in  what  he  did  in  this  moment,  which  was 
nothing  less  than  temptation  to  him,  he  cannot  be 
judged  from  a  normal  standpoint. 

He  neither  treated  the  matter  as  a  jest,  nor  did  he 
leave  the  place  where  he  was  sitting,  but  clenching 


£42  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

his  hands  over  his  eyes,  he  tried  to  pray.  And  the 
more  the  vision  of  Roona  unloosening  her  hair  rose  in 
his  mind  the  louder  he  cried  to  God  in  his  heart. 

"If  there's  any  power  of  will  or  any  strength  of 
body  that  Thou  canst  give  me,  O  God,  let  me  have 
it  now  and  let  me  use  it  to  the  glory  of  Thy  Holy 
Name.     O  God,  help  me,  for  I  cannot  help  myself ! " 

And  hearing  his  prayer  the  Great  Being  who  of 
His  Pride  leads  us  into  temptation  and  of  His  Mercy 
leads  us  out  again  did  what  only  could  have  given 
the  priest  that  strength  for  which  he  asked. 

After  his  prayer  Father  Michael  looked  up  again 
fearfully  at  the  house.     The  light  was  out! 

All  was  dark  once  more,  and  only  the  seductive 
scent  of  the  tobacco  plants  appealed  itself  to  his 
trembling  senses. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Fathee  Michael  rose  from  his  seat  in  the  garden 
and  walked  into  the  house  with  one  determination 
fixed  firmly  in  his  mind.  He  would  not  throw  him- 
self into  the  way  of  temptation  the  next  day.  He 
would  not  put  himself  into  the  position  of  having  to 
fight  the  inclination  that  he  knew  he  would  have  to 
accompany  Roona  on  her  sketching  expedition. 

He  would  take  Mrs.  Warren's  advice  and  go  up  to 
Paris.  Up  to  that  moment  the  idea  had  never  re- 
entered his  mind.  He  had  been  perfectly  contented 
with  his  surroundings  as  they  were ;  absolutely  happy 
in  her  companionship. 

Now  it  was  different.  He  knew  that  he  could  not 
trust  himself  with  her ;  at  least,  not  so  soon  after  the 
thoughts  that  had  passed  through  his  mind  in  the 
foregoing  minutes.  It  was  far  better  that  he  should 
see  nothing  of  her  for  a  day  or  two.  There  was  really 
no  necessity  for  it  to  be  longer  than  that.  It  would 
so  soon  be  all  over,  and  then  quite  unlikely  that  they 
would  ever  see  each  other  again. 

For  the  moment  that  was  a  comforting  thought, 
and  he  clung  to  it  desperately.  It  would  soon  be  all 
over,  and  then  quite  unlikely  that  they  would  ever  see 
each  other  again. 

Finding  Mrs.  Warren  in  the  sitting-room  he  told 
her  of  his  intention. 

"Oh,  Roona's  going  to  Paris,  to-morrow  as  well," 
she  said,  "  you'd  better  go  with  her." 

The  temptation  rose  at  him  like  a  wild  beast  which 

243 


244  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

he  had  thought  to  be  asleep.  He  beat  at  it  mentally 
in  his  endeavour  to  cast  it  down. 

"  What  train  is  she  going  by .''  "  he  asked  slowly. 

"  The  eight  something." 

There  was  his  escape.    He  took  it. 

"  Oh,  that's  too  early  for  me,"  he  announced,  with  a 
forced  laugh.  **A  train  between  ten  and  eleven  is 
what  I  want." 

"  There's  one  at  ten  o'clock  exactly." 

"  That'll  suit  me  splendidly.  Then  I'll  have  break- 
fast with  you  at  the  usual  hour.  You  see,  I  don't 
want  to  be  in  Paris  too  long.  Sight-seeing's  a  very 
tiring  business." 

*'I'm  afraid  Roona  won't  change  her  train  and  go 
by  the  ten." 

"  There's  no  need  for  her  to,"  he  said  quickly. 

**You  see,  she  has  to  meet  a  friend  from  Ireland 
at  the  Louvre  at  half -past  two.  They've  come  over 
specially  to  see  her.  I  suppose  she  thinks  that  there 
wouldn't  be  time  to  do  any  shopping  if  she  went  up 
later." 

*'  Of  course.  Quite  naturally.  I  expect  the  ten  is 
rather  a  slow  train." 

«Itis." 

"  Then,  of  course,  it  wouldn't  be  any  good  to  her." 

He  felt  a  certain  sense  of  rehef. 

"  What  time  are  there  trains  back?  " 

"Oh,  Roona's  coming  by  the  five.  You'd  better 
come  by  that  as  well.  Then  I'll  have  a  good  tea 
waiting  for  you  both.     You're  sure  to  be  hungry." 

He  laughed  unnaturally,  and  then  they  said  good- 
night. 


THE    WOMAN  245 

He  had  made  a  firm  resolve  that  he  would  go  to 
Paris  to  avoid  Roona,  and  now  he  found  that  she  was 
going  as  well.  Why  did  he  not  put  aside  the  resolu- 
tion and  determine  to  go  the  next  day  instead? 
Because  human  nature  is  stubborn  in  refusing  to 
admit  that  it  is  wrong.  He  had  said  that  he  would 
go  to  Paris ;  he  had  fixed  his  mind  upon  it  as  a  cer- 
tainty and  he  utterly  failed  to  reconstruct  his  calcu- 
lations, even  when  by  so  doing,  that  which  he  wished 
to  avoid  came  in  his  way  again. 

Far  down  in  his  mind  beyond  the  reach  of  his  in- 
trospection, beyond  his  conscious  knowledge  of  him- 
self, he  was  glad  that  she  was  going  to  Paris.  It 
entered  his  thoughts  in  the  form  of  a  casual  satisfac- 
tion that  he  would  not  after  all  miss  a  day  with  her 
at  her  sketching.  To  be  away  from  her  now  was 
unavoidable.  She  was  going  to  meet  some  one  in 
Paris,  but  it  was  quite  within  the  bounds  of  possi- 
bility that  he  would  meet  her  coming  back  in  the 
train. 

He  had  made  that  decision  to  go  to  Paris  out  of 
the  strength  of  his  will.  It  had  cost  him  an  effort, 
and  why  should  it  prove  to  be  useless.''  He  failed 
to  see  that  in  that  very  point  of  argument  lay  the 
cunningly-hidden  kernel  of  his  temptation. 

In  his  heart  he  hoped  that  he  would  meet  her  in 
Paris.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  would  meet  her 
in  the  train  coming  back.  And,  knowing  that  in  his 
decision  to  leave  Duresne  he  had  done  his  best  to 
make  a  sacrifice,  he  was  too  much  biassed  in  his 
desires  to  turn  again  and  shun  the  thing  that  was 
drawing  him  onwards. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  incidents  that  lead  up  to,  and  the  circum- 
stances that  surround,  a  crisis  are  frequently  the 
most  commonplace  in  the  world.  Fate,  chance,  or 
the  god  of  circumstance,  call  it  what  you  will,  has  the 
shrewdest  eye  for  dramatic  effect.  Ever  since  the 
days  of  ^schylus  the  theatre  stage  has  been  descend- 
ing in  the  quality  of  its  dramatic  effect  in  the  plays 
which  it  brings  forth  behind  its  lights.  It  has  become 
more  of  a  stage  and  less  of  life  with  every  little 
scenic  accessory  that  has  been  added  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  show  since  the  time  when  a  man  labelled 
himself  as  a  brick  wall  and  put  up  his  fingers  in 
the  shape  of  an  O  to  indicate  a  hole  in  the  struc- 
ture. 

With  every  addition  of  footlights  and  limelights, 
ceilings  and  reversible  scenery,  a  little  more  of  life 
has  gone  out  of  the  play  and  a  little  more  reality  has 
been  added  to  the  canvas  of  the  scene. 

Now,  the  dramatic  effect  comes  after  two  acts  of 
prolonged  anticipation,  and  the  crisis  is  but  the 
bursting  of  the  bubble  in  a  gale  of  wind  that  in  the 
first  act  has  begun  to  moan  through  the  tree-tops. 

This  is  not  the  case  in  real  life.  Actors  and 
audience  are  all  unconscious  of  those  subtle  and  in- 
tangible steps  that  intensify  and*  concentrate  into 
the  great  outburst  of  the  final  result;  and  the  last 
links  which  connect  the  crisis  with  the  plot,  for  the 

246 


THE    WOMAN  247 

matter  bears  repetition,  are  frequently  the  most  com- 
monplace of  all. 

What  could  be  more  usual  than  that  a  man  should 
wander  aimlessly  about  the  footpaths  in  Paris,  stop- 
ping at  the  Madeleine,  entering  its  doors  and  coming 
out  again  in  a  few  moments  with  a  grievous  sense  of 
disappointment?  Taking  a  river-boat  down  as  far 
as  Notre  Dame  and  visiting  the  old  cathedral  with 
the  wonder  bom  of  much  reading  and  hearsay  and 
fancying  that  it  fulfilled  all  his  expectations  ?  What 
could  be  more  within  the  inveterate  scheme  of  things 
than  that  an  obvious  foreigner,  a  priest  of  some  other 
country,  should  stand  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
endeavouring  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to 
imagine  that  in  that  cleanly  space  of  ground — with 
no  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  coruscating  grime 
of  ages,  but  with  stones  white  and  new  as  though  just 
freshly  powdered  with  the  dust  that  rose  from  the 
mason's  chisel — that  there,  not  so  many  years  ago, 
the  allied  armies  were  encamped  and  that  there  the 
guillotine  found  its  place  in  history  during  the  bloody 
Reign  of  Terror?  What  could  be  more  common  a 
sight  than  that?  Yet  who  of  the  audience — the 
many  passers-by — who  just  cast  a  glance  at  his  thin 
figure,  would  have  known  that  he  stood  upon  the  eve 
of  his  crisis  when  even  he  was  utterly  unaware  of 
it  himself? 

Having  visited  these  places  and  then  partaken  of  a 
light  lunch  in  some  unpretentious-looking  cafe. 
Father  Michael  consulted  with  himself  as  to  where  he 
should  go  next. 

An  English  waiter  who  was  doing  his  utmost  to 


«48  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

learn  French  had  attended  him.  Ajs  Father  Michael 
demanded  his  bill  he  asked  this  man  to  direct  him  to 
the  tomb  of  Napoleon. 

"  It's  a  good  distance  from  here,"  the  man  answered, 
"  and  then  it's  not  open  to-day." 

Father  Michael  smiled. 

"  That's  not  much  good  then." 

**Have  you  seen  Notre  Dame?"  asked  the  waiter. 

"  I  have.     I've  just  come  from  there." 

"  The  Salon." 

"What's  that.?" 

"  Picture  gallery.     New  pictures.     French  artists.'* 

"  I  don't  care  for  them." 

"The  Louvre.?" 

"  No,  I  haven't  been  there." 

He  felt  the  words  come  slowly  and  unnaturally. 

"  It's  worth  seeing ;  well  worth  seeing,"  said  the 
waiter  who  had  never  been  there  himself. 

"What  is  the  time.?  "  Father  Michael  asked. 

"  Ten  minutes  past  two." 

"  What  is  the  Louvre  noted  for?  " 

"  Sort  of  mixture  of  the  National  Gallery  in  London 
and  the  British  Museum." 

British  Museum — those  words  brought  back  a  host 
of  memories  to  his  mind.  He  inquired  the  way,  paid 
his  bill  and  came  out  again  into  the  street.  She  was 
going  to  the  Louvre  at  half-past  two  to  meet  some 
one,  a  friend  of  hers  who  had  come  over  from  Ireland 
especially  to  see  her.  The  question  in  his  mind  was 
not,  should  he  go,  but  should  he  not  go?  After  all 
she  was  going  to  meet  a  friend.  At  the  utmost  he 
would  only  see  her  at  a  distance.     How  ridiculous  it 


THE    WOMAN  24*9 

was,  as  Father  Connelly  would  have  said,  to  worry 
oneself  over  such  infinitesimal  details.  It  was  per- 
fectly natural  that  he  should  go  to  the  Louvre  at  that 
hour,  and  there  really  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  to  be 
seen. 

He  went. 

Gambetta's  statue  was  the  first  landmark  at  which, 
without  the  bias  of  hearsay,  he  stopped  to  admire. 
Such,  he  thought,  as  he  looked  high  up  to  the  stem, 
carved  face,  was  the  strength  of  manhood  that  he 
would  wish  to  possess.  But  he  knew  that  it  was  not 
his. 

In  the  last  week  or  so  of  his  holidays — there  were 
but  five  more  days  to  run — ^he  had  come  to  the  reali- 
zation that  his  strength  of  will  was  not  so  great  as  he 
had  supposed  it  to  be;  yet  even  with  this  realization 
he  still  classified  himself  as  a  priest.  He  was  a  weak- 
minded  priest,  a  forgetful  priest,  a  priest  without  a 
full  sense  of  the  stern  deprivations  of  his  calling,  but 
he  was  never  a  man  with  human  passions  and  human 
desires. 

Drilled  at  a  tender  age  when  all  impressions  last 
sufiiciently  to  be  detrimental  or  to  be  of  benefit  his 
schooling  had  sunk  very  deep.  The  keynote  of  his 
vocation  had  been  struck  too  loud  and  the  knowledge 
of  his  manhood  too  much  suppressed  for  him  to  think 
otherwise.  All  reasoning  had  been  biassed  in  his 
mind,  and  that  process  of  unnatural  counterpoising 
had  been  effected  too  early  for  anything  short  of  a 
crisis  to  upheave  and  set  the  balance  right. 

"Attenta  raritate  vocationum,"  as  Pius  IX.  has 
written.     The  fewness  of  vocations  must  be  avoided 


250  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

at  all  costs,  and  so  the  time  for  taking  the  vow  was 
lowered  to  that  frail  and  susceptible  age  when  we 
make  ghosts  of  shadows  and  damnation  of  death. 

Nothing  short  of  a  crisis  can  be  effectual  in  such  a 
state  of  affairs,  and  to  some  that  crisis  comes  with  the 
rising  and  setting  of  the  day's  sun,  but  to  others,  as 
In  the  case  of  Father  Michael,  it  arrives  with  all  the 
sudden  and  dramatic  outburst  of  the  thunder-cloud 
that  breaks  upon  the  world  at  the  beginning  of  a 
great  storm. 

He  had  gone  round  to  the  back  of  the  statued 
group  that  surrounds  Gambetta  and  was  gazing  up 
at  its  huge  proportions  when  a  clock  struck  the  half- 
hour.  He  looked  round  quickly.  The  note  of  the 
gong  had  swiftly  altered  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
This  was  the  hour  at  which  Roona  was  to  come  to 
the  Louvre  to  meet  her  friend.  He  turned  to  every 
side  in  the  vague  expectation  of  seeing  her,  but  she 
was  not  in  sight,  and  then  he  made  his  way  into  the 
building. 

Had  he  been  conversant  with  the  history  of  France 
the  interior  of  the  Louvre  might  have  been  as  interest- 
ing as  he  had  found  the  British  Museum ;  but  he  was 
familiar  with  few  indeed  of  its  details,  and  so  he 
wandered  aimlessly  from  one  room  to  another,  being 
attracted  here  and  there  only  by  the  glittering  of 
some  priceless  jewel  in  a  glass  case  or  the  striking 
subject  of  a  vast  canvas. 

Before  "  The  Last  Supper,"  with  which  certainly  he 
was  as  well  acquainted  as  with  the  Stations  of  the 
Cross  that  adorned  the  walls  of  the  little  chapel  in 
Rathmore,  he  stayed  for  some  time.     Then  in  one 


THE   WOMAN  251 

sudden  moment  all  his  pious  meditations  were  roughly 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  Rooila's  voice. 

He  knew  it  at  once.  The  senses  of  a  man,  once 
roused,  are  as  keen  as  the  edge  of  a  knife,  and  with 
Father  Michael  there  was  no  mistaking  that  bright 
laugh  which  sometimes  accompanied  her  words.  To 
him  it  always  seemed  to  convey  that  spirit  of  the 
brighter  side  of  life  in  which  she  had  initiated  him  in 
his    holiday. 

"  You  can't  say  that  I  induced  you  to  come,"  she 
was  saying  as  she  passed  behind  his  back,  and  after 
her  words  followed  the  light  laugh  so  untouched  by 
the  seriousness  of  life. 

He  controlled  his  immediate  inclination  to  turn 
and  continued  looking  at  the  picture,  of  which  he  saw 
nothing.  When  he  judged  by  the  receding  sound  of 
her  voice  that  she  was  well  past  him  he  cautiously 
turned  his  head.  He  knew  that  he  would  dislike 
being  discovered  there  by  her.  It  would  seem  as  if 
his  curiosity  were  uncontrollable,  and  he  felt  sure  that 
she  would  despise  him  for  it. 

His  first  thought  when  he  made  out  her  figure 
amongst  the  other  visitors — a  matter  that  was 
attended  with  no  difficulty  for  him — ^was  to  look  at 
her  companion. 

Some  instinct,  the  root  of  which  he  could  not 
explain,  told  him  it  would  be  a  man  and  his  instinct 
was  right. 

But  there  could  have  been  no  sense  acute  enough  to 
have  foretold  this  man's  identity. 

He  looked  backwards  over  his  shoulder  as  the  priest 
turned,  and  then  Father  Michael  felt  that  slow,  creep- 


26«  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

ing  realization  of  things  which  does  not  come  in  one 
sudden,  palpitating  shock,  but  grows  up  the  limbs 
leaving  each  part  of  the  body  cold  as  it  passes 
onwards  and  upwards  to  the  heart.  And  for  a 
moment  the  heart  stands  still,  then  beats  on  again 
with  fearful  energy. 

He  felt  sick  and  cold.  The  roof  of  his  mouth 
became  in  one  moment  as  dry  as  a  piece  of  bone. 
He  tried  to  catch  at  one  tangible  thought  in  his  mind, 
but  there  was  none. 

It  was  a  face  he  knew,  a  face  he  had  seen  before. 

It  was  the  man  who  had  confessed  to  him  in  Rath- 
more,  to  whom  at  first  he  had  refused  absolution. 

And  she — she  was  the  girl  with  the  red  hair ! 


CHAPTER     XXVIII 

Then  his  thoughts  were  loosed.  They  crowded 
through  his  brain  like  a  leash  of  hounds  set  free  on  a 
prey  that  is  in  sight. 

She  was  the  girl  whose  face  had  drawn  the  young 
man  into  sin.  Her  eyes  had  taunted  and  tempted 
him.     Her  hair  had  bewitched  him. 

From  that  one  moment  Father  Michael  was  a 
different  man,  and  in  his  eyes  she  was  a  different 
woman. 

He  had  railed  at  that  man  In  the  confessional,  and 
every  word  that  he  had  said  came  back  to  his  mind, 
falling  upon  his  scattered  senses  like  the  tumbling 
of  some  structure  on  his  head.     He  was  amazed. 

With  almost  a  laugh  he  remembered  that  in  his 
prayer,  when  he  gave  the  absolution,  he  had  prayed 
for  her;  prayed  that  she  might  not  draw  other  men 
after  her,  and  he,  the  irony  of  it,  had  been  the  very 
next.  He  knew  it  then.  It  was  no  longer  possible 
for  him  to  deceive  himself.  Every  thought  that  had 
passed  through  that  young  man*s  mind  had  probably 
passed  through  his,  and  in  that — though  he  had 
had  no  sympathy  with  him  in  the  confessional — he 
realized  that  there  was  but  little  difference  between 
them. 

But  with  regard  to  Roona,  how  had  his  opinion  of 
her  been  altered?  Certainly  she  was  not  the  same 
in  his  eyes.  There  was  some  one  great  and  essential 
difference,    and    it    broke    into    the    essence    of    his 

253 


254  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

thoughts,  forcing  ideas  into  his  mind  to  which  before 
he  would  not  have  dared  give  expression. 

It  seemed  that  the  zest  of  their  companionship  had 
vanished.  In  her  thoughts  he  knew  that  he  held  no 
place  of  prominence.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  had  he 
known  that  she  thought  of  him  with  more  than  a 
merely  passing  interest,  it  might  have  been  different. 
His  feelings  towards  her  might  have  been  more  gentle, 
more  sympathetic,  whereas  they  were  bitter  and 
almost  unforgiving. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  offer  to  arrest  one  of  the 
thoughts  that  passed  through  his  mind  and  under- 
stand it  before  it  had  gone.  When  it  struck  him  that 
she  had  not  treated  him  fairly,  that  in  an  inexplicable 
way  he  had  been  subject  to  her  injustice,  he  let  it 
pass  without  realizing  that  he  had  no  personal  reason 
to  complain  of  her  action  in  the  past. 

Yet  insensibly  in  the  short  time  since  he  had  known 
her  he  had  grown  to  think  of  her  as  some  one  apper- 
taining more  particularly  to  himself.  Only  in  this  mo- 
ment of  sudden  understanding  did  it  make  itself  appar- 
ent; but,  nevertheless,  it  had  been  there  all  the  time. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  willingly  laid  a  trap 
to  catch  him ;  consciously  and  with  determination  she 
had  sought  to  waylay  him  with  the  danger  of  her 
eyes  and  the  seduction  of  her  lips,  and  all  for  the 
mere  enjoyment  of  the  moment.  Thinking  that,  how 
coulgl  he  feel  pity  for  her  sin  or  sorrow  for  her  un- 
doing? It  was  impossible.  The  crisis  had  partly 
come;  he  was  judging  as  a  man.  The  priest,  apart 
from  his  duties,  was  forgotten.  The  mind  of  the 
celibate  was  almost  dead. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

Few  of  the  carriages  of  the  five-o'clock  train  from 
the  Gare  de  Lyons  were  occupied  that  evening  as, 
having  looked  in  vain  for  Roona  Lawless,  Father 
Michael  walked  down  as  far  as  the  engine  and  then 
turned  round. 

She  had  not  come  as  yet,  but  it  wanted  still  ten 
minutes  to  the  hour  of  starting  and  he  quite  expected 
her  to  arrive. 

Recalling  to  his  mind  the  words  he  had  heard  her 
say  to  her  compaion  in  the  Louvre  he  had  reason- 
ably deduced  that  what  the  young  man  had  told  him 
in  his  confession  had  come  to  pass.  She  had  grown 
tired  of  him. 

"You  can't  say  that  I  induced  you  to  come,"  she 
had  said.  Quite  probably  she  had  not  done  so. 
That  then  pointed  to  another  side  of  the  matter. 
Drawn  by  the  magnetic  remembrance  of  his  passion 
for  her  the  young  man  had  broken  his  promise  and 
come  to  see  her.  That  seemed  quite  natural  to 
Father  Michael  then,  for  after  the  first  tumult  of  his 
thoughts  had  died  down  he  had  found  that  none  of  his 
desire  for  her  companionship  had  lessened.  He  no 
longer  held  her  in  that  same  regard  as  when  he  had 
called  her  his  friend.  He  doubted  even  whether  he 
had  the  same  respect  for  her  as  he  had  previously 
felt  when  in  her  presence. 

He  remembered  the  time  when,  because  he  had  not 
dared  to  face  temptation  any  longer,  he  had  left  her 

255 


256  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

without  a  word  of  explanation.  Then  he  had 
thought  she  would  have  spumed  and  despised  him 
had  he  clutched  her  in  his  arms  as  for  one  second 
he  had  felt  inclined  to  do.  But  now  he  could  think 
that  no  longer.  She  might  not  wish  him  to  do  it 
certainly,  but  she  would  probably  not  resist  it  so 
forcibly  as  he  had  imagined  if  he  did. 

No,  she  was  entirely  changed  to  him,  and  that  side 
of  his  nature  which  had  craved  the  interest  of  con- 
versation with  her  was  now  utterly  subservient  to  the 
more  brutal  passion  of  desire. 

He  did  not  tell  himself  why,  as  he  waited  for  her 
arrival,  why  he  was  longing  to  be  in  her  presence, 
talking  to  her  again.  He  would  not  tell  himself 
for  fear  his  conscience  would  rise  against  him ;  yet  in 
his  mind  there  was  a  fixed  and  pressing  determi- 
nation. 

The  guard  was  beginning  to  shut  the  carriages. 
He  stepped  into  the  one  that  was  opposite  to  him  and 
having  closed  the  door  turned  round  to  look  out  of 
the  window. 

The  hand  of  the  clock  was  almost  casting  its 
shadow  on  to  the  hour  of  departure  when  Roona 
hurried  on  to  the  platform.  She  did  not  see  him 
leaning  out  of  his  carriage  and  took  the  first  that 
she  came  to. 

It  was  the  moment  for  a  great  victory  or  a  complete 
defeat  and  the  two  factions  of  his  nature  raised  them- 
selves to  their  highest  and  their  utmost  in  their  last, 
great  struggle.  As  though  in  a  contest  of  mere  and 
brutal  strength  the  man  fought  with  the  celibate. 
Should  he  stay  where  he  was  or  should  he  join  her 


THE    WOMAN  257 

in  the  carriage?  In  the  answering  of  that  one 
question  lay  the  whole  issue  of  the  conflict. 

It  was  not  an  even  fight  from  the  beginning.  In 
the  first  moment  he  had  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
handle  of  the  door  and  that  was  half  the  battle.  It 
only  needed  one  short  turn  of  the  wrist  and  the  way 
was  free. 

He  did  not  think  to  call  to  mind  the  words  of  Ezra 
the  scribe,  but  there  in  that  moment  assuredly  lay  the 
truth  of  them. 

**  Yea,  and  if  men  have  gathered  together  gold  and 
silver  and  every  other  goodly  thing,  and  see  a  woman 
which  is  comely  in  favour  and  beauty,  they  let  all 
these  things  go  and  gape  after  her,  and  even  with 
open  mouth  fix  their  eyes  fast  on  her;  and  have  all 
more  desire  unto  her  than  unto  gold  and  silver  or  any 
goodly  thing  whatsoever." 

Of  what  use  were  his  vows  at  that  moment?  Only 
the  power  of  the  all-powerful  God  could  have  availed, 
and  how  can  one  give  forth  reasons  for  the  silence  of 
the  Almighty  Creator? 

It  cannot  at  least  be  said  with  the  mocking  of  Elijah 
the  Tishbite  that  He  is  talking,  pursuing,  on  a 
journey  or  peradventure  sleepeth.  But  one  solution 
there  seems  to  be,  and  that  may  be  taken  or  left  at 
the  reader's  will.  What  has  been  ordained  and 
decreed  by  the  Maker  of  all  things,  that  He  does  not 
alter  or  undo  for  the  importunate  prayers  of  one 
man. 

"And  the  Lord  God  said.  It  is  not  good  that  the 
man  should  be  alone;  I  will  make  him  an  help  meet 
for  him.     And  the  rib,  which  the  Lord  God  had  taken 


258  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

from  man,  made  he  a  woman,  and  brought  her  unto 
the  man." 

Still  whatever  It  may  be,  no  sudden  and  all-powerful 
strength  did  fall  upon  Father  Michael.  The  battle 
was  over  almost  before  it  was  begun.  The  handle 
of  the  door  was  turned.  He  descended  trembling  to 
the  platform.  He  knew  the  end  to  which  he  was 
going,  but  he  could  not  hold  himself  back. 

"En  volture!  En  voiture!"  called  the  guard  in 
excitable,  high-pitched  tones. 

Father  Michael  ran  down  the  platform  looking  into 
the  last  carriages  as  he  passed  them. 

There  she  was — alone.  He  opened  the  door.  She 
looked  up  and  smiled  with  evident  pleasure  when  she 
saw  him,  and  as  the  train  began  to  move  he  stepped 
in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER     XXX 

"  I  NEARLY  missed  it  too,"  she  said  as  he  sat  down  in 

the  comer  opposite  to  her. 
"  Oh,  I  didn't  have  to  run  to  catch  the  train,  I  have 

been  here  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
"  Why  were  you  in  such  a  hurry  then  ?  " 
She  was  reading  a  paper,  and  left  it  lying  idly  on 

her  lap. 
"  I  saw  you  get  into  this  carriage.     I  was  up  at  the 

other  end  of  the  train." 
"  And  it  took  you  till  the  last  minute  to  decide  that 

you'd  come  and  join  me?"     She  looked  reproach- 
fully at  him. 
"Why,  you've  only  just  come." 
"  Oh  no,  I've  been  here  fully  three  minutes." 
"  Well,  it  took  me  three  minutes  to  decide." 
Her  eyes  opened.     There  was  almost  an  aggressive 

tone  in  his  voice  that  she  had  never  heard  before. 

He    noticed    it    himself,    but    was    quite    unable    to 

change  it. 
"Don't  you  think  that's  a  very  poor  compliment?" 

she  asked,  with  an  effort  to  relieve  the  strain  that 

seemed  to  be  upon  their  conversation.     "You  knew 

I  was  coming.     Mrs.  Warren  told  me  that  she  had 

told  you  I  was  returning  by  the  five." 
"Oh  yes,  I  knew  you  were  coming.     I  expected 

you." 
He  looked  out  of  the  window.     They  were  rushing 

past  the  flat  fields  with  their  inadequate  relief  of 

259 


260  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

poplar  trees.  He  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind  on 
the  scenery  as  they  flew  past  it,  but  that  was 
impossible. 

He  was  endeavouring  to  understand  why  it  all 
seemed  different  from  what  he  had  expected.  In 
the  knowledge  that  he  had  unintentionally  gained  of 
her  past,  he  had  felt  that  he  held  the  mastery  over 
her.  The  thought  had  expressed  itself  in  his  voice  in 
the  first  moments  of  their  conversation.  But  now 
that  he  was  in  her  presence  all  the  sense  of  mastery 
was  vanishing.  Unconsciously  she  cowered  him  into 
his  former  spirit  of  submission,  and  he  would  have 
obeyed  her  implicitly  in  everything.  Not  because  he 
doubted  the  fact  of  her  being  the  same  girl  of  whom 
the  young  man  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  confessional. 
It  was  more  than  instinct  that  lay  at  the  root  of  his 
belief. 

He  had  fancied  that  because  of  the  knowledge  he 
had  gained  she  would  seemed  confused,  show  signs  in 
every  word  she  said  of  the  consciousness  of  her 
having  sinned.  Yet  on  the  contrary,  she  appeared  as 
natural,  as  unconcerned  as  ever,  and  the  realization 
of  it  had  disarmed  him.  He  knew  that  he  was  not 
the  master,  that  whether  she  encouraged  or  deterred 
him  he  was  bound  to  obey. 

It  was  just  his  inexperience.  Another  man  of 
precisely  similar  temperament  to  Father  Michael, 
but  who  had  been  brought  up  in  different  ways  of 
life,  would  not  have  been  so  influenced  by  the  outer 
semblance  of  her  casual  conversation.  Knowing 
what  Father  Michael  knew  he  would  have  seen  below 
the  surface  of  her  apparent   unconcern — he   could 


THE    WOMAN  261 

have  traced  the  haunting  shadows  of  her  folly  in  a 
chance  word  or  a  hurried  look. 

She  may  not  be  aware  of  it  herself,  but  a  woman 
is  irredeemably  altered,  irrevocably  changed  by  the 
influence  of  one  act  of  folly.  She  can  be  more  sym- 
pathetic, but  she  has  gained  in  cunning — she  can  be 
more  affectionate,  but  she  has  gained  in  the  art  of 
simulation;  there  is  an  alluring  seductiveness  in  her 
to  a  man,  but  once  that  is  past  she  yields  him  the 
depth  of  her  nature  quickly,  spontaneously  with  no 
charm  of  reticence  or  regret. 

Yet  it  is  only  by  comparison  that  we  see  these 
things ;  and  it  was  because  with  Father  Michael  com- 
parison was  impossible  that  it  seemed  to  him  in  spite 
of  everything,  that  she  was  the  same  as  ever. 

Not  in  any  measure  had  the  tumult  ceased  in  his 
mind.  He  only  felt  that  her  presence  and  the  usual 
conventionality  of  her  manner  were  thwarting  its 
expression ;  yet  notwithstanding  this  check,  it  surged 
and  swelled  with  its  intensity.  His  thoughts  were 
unnatural,  almost  brutal.  He  did  not  know  and 
could  not  have  recognized  himself  in  his  mind;  yet 
there  he  sat,  to  all  appearances  quite  calmly,  watch- 
ing the  fleeting  scenery  from  the  window  as  the  train 
carried  them  on  to  Duresne. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  Paris .?  "  Roona  asked, 
when  the  silence  that  followed  his  last  remark  brought 
with  it  no  explanation. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  hearing  her  words  but 
scarcely  realizing  their  meaning  in  its  application  to 
himself. 

"I  wasn't  very  much  impressed,"  he  said  vaguely. 


262  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

and  then  he  added  with  poorly  concealed  meaning, 
"  in  fact,  I  was  disappointed  with  the  Louvre." 

She  flushed  as  she  had  done  before  when  he  had  told 
her  that  he  had  seen  her  in  London.  The  colour  in 
her  cheeks  only  intensified  his  admiration  for  her 
face,  and  at  the  same  time  almost  angered  him,  for 
then,  at  least  he  knew  what  she  was  thinking  of. 

"  You  went  to  the  Louvre  ? "  she  asked,  looking 
quickly  down  at  the  paper  in  her  lap. 

He  leant  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"I  did." 

He  tried  to  make  her  eyes  meet  his,  but  she  kept 
them  fixed  upon  her  paper. 

*'  At  what  time  did  you  go  there  ?  " 

Of  course  he  knew  very  well  that  she  had  not  seen 
him,  and  yet  it  seemed  the  most  obvious  dissimulation 
to  him,  the  most  palpable  deception.  He  could  not, 
had  not  the  mind  to  judge  of  her  otherwise,  just  as 
he  had  been  unable  to  mete  out  human  justice  to  the 
young  man  in  the  confessional. 

"  Some  time  after  two.  I  only  stayed  there  for 
about  an  hour  and  a  half." 

He  was  still  striving  to  force  her  eyes  to  his,  but 
persistently  she  avoided  the  closeness  of  his  gaze. 

"  How  strange,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  was  there  at  just 
about  that  time  too."  She  was  sure  he  would  have 
said  if  he  had  seen  her,  and  consequently  had  no 
compunction  about  making  this  admission. 

It  was  accordingly  much  to  her  surprise  and  con- 
fusion that  he  told  her  the  contrary. 

"  I  was  looking  at  a  picture  when  I  heard  your  voice 
behind  me,  and  you  laughed." 


THE    WOMAN  263 

She  tried  to  meet  his  eyes  unflinchingly. 

"What  was  I  saying?"  she  asked. 

"  Your  exact  words  ?  " 

"Can  you  remember  them?" 

By  an  effort  he  steadied  his  voice. 

"  I  don't  think  I've  forgotten  them,"  he  replied,  and 
imperceptibly  he  changed  the  angle  of  his  elbows, 
bringing  himself  slightly  nearer  to  her. 

"Well,"  her  laugh  was  dry  and  unnatural,  "what 
were  they  ?  " 

" '  You  can't  say  that  I  asked  you  to  come,'  was 
what  you  said,  and  then  you  walked  on  into  another 
gallery." 

"  You  saw  I  was  with  some  one  then  ?  " 

"I  did." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window.  There  was  a  sense 
of  hesitancy  about  her  action,  as  though  she,  had  been 
about  to  say  something  else,  to  confide  something  in 
him  which  on  secondary  consideration  she  thought 
better  of. 

Father  Michael  had  noticed  it  in  the  inflexion  of 
her  voice,  and  for  a  short  space  of  time  he  waited  for 
her  to  go  on,  but  she  was  silent. 

"  Mrs.  Warren  told  me  that  you  were  going  up  to 
Paris  to  meet  a  friend,"  he  went  on,  with  more  gentle- 
ness and  less  of  the  tone  of  mastery  in  his  voice. 
"Was  that  the  friend?" 

Again  her  eyes  turned  towards  his,  and  he  saw  in 
them  the  wistful  expression  of  an  appeal  for  sym- 
pathy. 

"  That  was  the  friend,"  she  replied. 

"  Only  a  friend  ?  "  he  asked  slowly. 


264  THE  APPLE   OF   EDEN 

She  thought  that  he  had  asked  the  question  in 
kindly  good-nature  out  of  his  interest  for  her,  and  it 
was  just  the  spark  of  sympathetic  encouragement 
that  she  needed  to  fan  the  flame  of  her  desire  to 
confide  in  some  one. 

That  day  with  Charles  Morough  at  the  Louvre  had 
been  one  of  the  most  trying  that  Roona  had  ever 
experienced.  It  is  not  easy  for  a  woman  to  tell  the 
man  to  whom  she  has  yielded  herself  that  her  deepest 
passion  for  him  has  not  been  lasting,  more  especially 
when  his  passion  for  her  has  but  increased.  Yet  that 
was  practically  what  had  occurred,  and,  unstrung  by 
many  of  the  things  that  he  had  said  to  her,  she  had 
become  possessed  of  a  violent  and  exaggerated  idea 
of  her  own  guilt,  so  that  when  Father  Michael  re- 
peated his  question,  "  Only  a  friend  ?  "  in  precisely 
the  same  tone  of  voice  she  felt  the  necessity  for  sym- 
pathy call  for  speech. 

"That's  all  now,"  she  said  softly.  "We  were 
engaged." 

*' Engaged?     You  zcere  engaged?  " 

*'  Yes.     It's  all  over  now." 

"Why?" 

She  utterly  misunderstood  the  directness  of  his 
tone.  She  thought  he  was  merely  interested  and 
sympathetic. 

"It's  been  all  my  fault,"  she  suddenly  broke  out, 
speaking  quickly,  "  I — I  thought  it  would  last  with 
me,  but  it  didn't.  It  began  too  suddenly,  and  now," 
she  paused,  "he  doesn't  seem  the  same.  It's  im- 
possible to  force  feeling  like  that." 

She  was  laying  herself  utterly  at  his  mercy,  and 


THE    WOMAN  265 

swept  away  beyond  thought  or  reason  by  the  sense 
of  the  impending  crisis,  he  dragged  her  thoughts 
from  her. 

"You  care  for  some  one  else?"  he  asked.  Had 
she  looked  into  his  eyes  then  she  would  have  plainly 
seen  the  light  of  his  passion  which  for  the  moment 
was  brushed  into  a  dull  gleam  by  the  jealousy  that 
crossed  his  thoughts. 

"  You  love  some  one  else  ? "  he  repeated,  and  still 
she  thought  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  one  of  interest. 
How  could  she  think  otherwise?  How  could  she 
know  all? 

"I  don't,"  she  exclaimed  bitterly.  "I  don't  think 
I  shall  ever  love  any  man  again.  I  want  you  to  tell 
me,  you  ought  to  know,  whether  I  have  done  anything 
very  wrong  in  breaking  it  all  to  pieces?  How  could 
I  tell  him  a  lie  to  please  him  when  I  really  had  grown 
tired?  I  know  it  has  made  him  miserable,  but — ^but 
surely  the  truth  is  better,  once  it's  out  ?  " 

She  made  her  declarations,  she  asked  her  questions 
as  though  he  were  listening  to  them  in  the  confes- 
sional. It  seemed  natural  enough  to  her,  once  the 
first  reserve  had  been  broken,  to  speak  to  him,  a 
priest,  as  freely  as  she  was  doing.  She  had  made 
confession  before  in  the  sacristy  at  the  knees  of  a 
priest  who  could  see  her  as  she  spoke.  There  she 
could  reserve  nothing,  or  the  confession  would  not 
have  been  complete,  but  here,  in  the  solitude  of  this 
carriage,  she  could  keep  to  herself  just  what  she 
wished  and  yet  confide  in  him,  ask  his  opinion. 

"  What  would  have  been  the  good  of  concealing  it 
from  him?"  she  asked  again. 


260  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

"None,"  he  said,  and  he  clenched  his  jawbones 
together  so  that  deep  shadows  fell  on  his  cheeks. 

There  was  a  pause.  He  was  leaning  still  nearer  to 
her  now,  his  eyes  watching  her  face.  She  did  not 
look  down  at  him,  but  from  the  sound  of  his  voice  he 
seemed  strong,  reliant  to  her — a  personality  on  which 
she  could  lean — mainly  because  his  opinion  coincided 
with  the  one  she  most  wished  to  adopt. 

But  it  was  no  real  opinion  of  his.  He  had  not 
given  his  mind  to  it  as  such  for  a  moment ;  in  fact,  he 
had  no  mind  to  give.  He  only  felt  the  presence,  the 
existence  of  himself  as  a  creature  of  instinct;  one 
mass  of  quivering  humanity,  wrapped,  tied,  bound  in 
the  cords  of  his  own  sensations  and  with  but  one 
desire  to  free  himself,  throw  off  the  toils  of  his 
bondage  and  be — a  man. 

There  were  others  who  had  been  men  before  him. 
He  looked  at  her  lips.  Others,  one  other  at  least, 
who  had  loosed  the  whole  tide  of  his  craving  in  order 
to  gain  her  caresses.  Why  should  not  he?  Because 
he  had  vowed  that  he  would  not  do  so?  Yes,  he 
had  vowed,  he  had  taken  the  step,  but  when  it  was 
accomplished  had  he  been  one  wit  the  wiser  of  the 
real  deprivation  with  which  he  was  binding  him- 
self? 

Had  he  ever  had  the  opportunity  to  gain  that 
wisdom?  Did  he  ever  think  that  it  would  be  like 
this,  this  vital,  gnawing  craving  for  what  in  that 
moment  of  existence  seemed  to  be  the  very  essence  of 
life?  How  could  he  have  thought  it?  How  could  he 
have  known?  He  could  not — he  could  not — he  could 
not  have  known!     Swiftly  he  remembered  the  be- 


THE    WOMAN  267 

ginning  of  Holland's  explanation  of  his  reason  for 
shirking  the  vow  of  chastity. 

*'  There  was  a  girl  in  Belfast " 

That  was  all  he  had  said,  but  now  Father  Michael 
understood  it.  And  there  had  not  been  one  woman 
in  the  world  to  him  until  now — now  when  it  was  too 
late.  Was  it  too  late  ?  Oh,  it  could  not  be  anything 
else.  Such  a  state  of  affairs  could  not  continue. 
He  knew  it  was  impossible.  He  was  a  celibate,  but 
of  what  use  on  God's  earth  was  a  celibate  with  a  mind 
like  his.'' 

He  looked  up  at  her  again  and  then  their  eyes 
met. 

She  felt  he  was  strong,  but  with  what  strength  she 
did  not  guess.  She  thought  she  could  lean  on  him, 
but  what  that  action  would  incur  or  what  call  forth 
from  him  did  not  enter  her  mind. 

"  I  think  you're  very  good,"  she  said,  and  she  smiled, 
"  very  good  to  listen  so  patiently." 

Her  hand  was  near  one  of  his  as  she  leant  forward 
to  speak  and  then  he  lost  sight  of  everything.  The 
next  moment  he  had  seized  her  hand.  Not  violently 
but  with  a  strange  and  impulsive  strength. 

"  You  think  I'm  good,  do  you  ?  "  he  said  hoarsely. 
**You  think  I've  been  listening  to  your  story  feeling 
only  sympathy  for  you  and  nothing  for  myself.''  '* 

As  yet  she  did  not  understand  or  realize,  but  the 
tone  of  his  voice  disconcerted  her  and  her  hand  still 
lay  in  his. 

"  Do  you  imagine  ?  "  he  went  on  quickly,  "  that  I 
feel  nothing  for  myself.?  Do  you  think  that  I've 
been  with  you,  in  your  company  day  after  day,  as  I 


268  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

have  been,  without  one  moment's  growth  of  something 
that  must  find  expression  like  this  ?  " 

"  Like  what  ?  "  she  stammered.  She  was  beginning 
to  see. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered.  "You  have  seen  men 
loving  you  and  you  cannot  see  that  I  am  burnt  with 
what  I  feel  for  you  ?     You  cannot  see  that  I  love 


you 


?" 


She  looked  about  the  carriage  quickly  and  tried  to 
free  her  hand. 

"Father!"  she  exclaimed,  and  though  her  voice 
was  filled  with  the  reproach  of  the  moment,  it  passed 
him  by  unnoticed. 

"  It's  too  late  to  call  me  that,"  he  said  wildly,  "  why 
haven't  you  called  me  it  before?  Why  have  you 
always  droprped  it  when  we've  been  out  together? 
Why?     Oh  you — ^how  I  love  you!" 

It  was  an  effort  to  make  her  voice  sound;  she  felt 
it  clin^ng  in  her  throat,  but,  nevertheless,  she  spoke. 
It  was  only  a  whisper,  yet  he  heard  it. 

*'  You  mustn't  say  all  this,"  she  said,  "  it  isn't  right 
— it's  wrong — ^wrong — ^you'll  hate  yourself  for  it 
afterwards." 

"Wrong?" 

In  that  crucial  moment  the  little  detail  of  the  brakes 
being  clamped  on  to  the  wheels  forced  itself  in  upon 
his  mind.  He  felt  the  dull  vibration  through  his  body. 
They  were  going  to  stop.  It  would  be  Duresne,  and 
after  that — 

With  the  hand  that  he  held  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms.  She  fell  forward  on  his  breast  and  for  one 
brief  moment,  one  that  seemed  to  be  the  longest  in 


THE   WOMAN  269 

his  life  and  yet  the  very  shortest,  he  found  her  Hps 
with  his  and  burnt  them  with  his  kisses. 

The  next  second  the  first  light  on  the  platform 
passed  them  by,  and  he  put  her  back  into  her  seat  as 
though  she  had  been  a  Httle  child. 

"There!"  he  said  with  his  eyes  alight,  "God  help 
me!" 


BOOK  IV 

THE  LAW, 


"You  do  not  beUeve,  you  only  believe  that  you 
beUeve."  Colebidoe. 

"First  recognize  what  is  true,  we  shall  then  dis- 
cern what  is  false;  and  properly  never  till  then." 
"  The  Hero  as  King,"  Thomas  Caelyle. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

It  was  without  doubt  the  wettest  day  that  had  been 
in  Rathmore  for  three  weeks  or  even  longer;  since, 
in  fact,  the  day  when  the  long  boat  had  come  back 
nearly  swamped  with  a  huge  catch  of  whiting,  and 
that,  in  the  certain  memory  of  Kennedy  the  master, 
was  exactly  three  weeks  and  two  days. 

The  little  main  street  was  utterly  deserted  except 
for  an  occasional  figure  wrapped  in  a  brown  shawl 
that  would  make  a  hurried  exit  from  the  door  of  one 
cottage  and  a  more  hasty  entrance  into  another.  A 
stray  dog  and  an  ambling  procession  of  ducks  ap- 
peared to  be  the  only  living  creatures  impervious  to 
the  rain,  and  truly  it  seemed  as  though  the  heavens 
were  bent  upon  purging  to  the  last  drop  their  great, 
heavy  cloud-cisterns  that  himg  overhead  in  masses 
of  leaden  grey. 

The  sea  at  the  end  of  the  viHage  street  was  a  dull 
patch  of  ugly  green  with  splashes  of  foam  here  and 
there,  as  though  in  some  gigantic  scheme  of  things 
an  artist  had  squeezed  daubs  of  vivid  white  upon  a 
palette  dark  with   angry   colours. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
rain  had  been  falling  since  midday  and  little  rivers  of 
water  were  coursing  through  self-made  channels  in 
the  roads,  laying  bare  the  white  stones  beneath  the 
outer  covering  of  mud.  The  heavy  trees  over- 
shadowing the  beginning  of  the  old  road  to  Anesk 

873 


274  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

which  led  into  the  village  at  the  further  end  from  the 
sea  were  dripping  with  water,  and  except  for  the 
swish  of  the  rain  as  it  fell  on  to  the  outer  leaves  there 
was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  deserted. 

But  a  solitary  pedestrian,  had  he  stopped  in  his 
walking,  would  have  heard  the  dull  rumbling  of  a 
distant  car.  Slowly  it  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  until 
at  last  with  a  sloshing  of  horse's  hoofs  in  the  puddles 
it  turned  the  far  comer  and  began  to  bring  some  sign 
of  life  into  the  almost  stagnant  state  of  the  sur- 
roundings. 

The  two  occupants,  the  passenger  wrapped  in  heavy 
rugs  with  his  face  almost  hidden  in  the  collar  of  his 
thick  coat,  the  driver,  heedless  of  the  weather,  with 
only  the  slight  collar  of  his  house-coat  turned  up 
inadequately  round  his  neck,  could  easily  have  been 
recognized  as  the  car  turned  round  from  under  the 
thick  archway  of  trees  bearing  sharply  to  the  right 
up  to  the  little  cottage  past  the  post-office. 

Three  weeks  before  or  thereabouts  these  two  had 
left  the  village  for  Anesk,  and  comparing  his  leave- 
taking  with  his  return.  Father  Michael — for  the  pas- 
senger was  no  other — missed  the  sight  of  the  familiar 
faces  that  had  bidden  him  farewell  and  Godspeed. 

Yet  in  his  anticipation  of  coming  back  to  Rathmore, 
suddenly,  unexpectedly,  as  he  had  done,  this  lack  of 
a  welcome  did  not  seem  unfitting  to  the  opinion  in 
which  he  now  held  himself.  He  felt  as  though  he 
had  cut  himself  off  from  the  world,  severed  all  the 
ties  which  had  bound  him  to  the  right  of  sympathy 
from  his  fellow-creatures. 


THE    LAW  275 

In  justice  to  the  sensitiveness  of  his  nature  it  should 
be  said  that  from  the  moment  of  his  fall  Father 
Michael  had  learnt  regret  and  sorrow.  But  the 
Apple  of  the  Garden  had  been  eaten ;  he  knew  that  he 
was  naked,  and  was  ashamed. 

Telling  Ryan  to  wait  while  he  went  into  the  cottage 
he  jumped  off  the  car,  opened  the  door  and  passed 
into  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  McGrath  gave  way  to  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise for  probably  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"Glory  be  to  God,  Father  Everett!  Is  that  your- 
self?" she  ejaculated. 

At  any  other  time  the  priest  might  have  smiled ;  he 
could  not  smile  then. 

"  It  is,  Mrs.  McGrath,"  he  replied.  "  Can  you  tell 
me  whether  Father  Connelly's  in  the  village?"  He 
added  the  latter  part  of  his  sentence  immediately 
after  the  other.  It  was  all  that  he  had  come  into  the 
kitchen  to  say. 

The  day  was  a  Thursday  and  it  was  most  imhkely 
that  the  parish  priest  would  be  in  Rathmore;  riot 
that  he  minded  the  state  of  the  weather.  Such  con- 
ditions of  nature  as  that,  with  all  its  variations, 
passed  him  quite  unnoticed. 

"  He's  not  then.  Father,"  Mrs.  McGrath  replied,  as 
he  had  expected  she  would,  and,  without  waiting  to 
hear  any  more  or  give  her  the  reason  of  the  sudden- 
ness of  his  return,  he  hastened  out  of  the  cottage  and 
jumped  again  on  to  the  car. 

"Drive  out  to  Ballysheen,  Ryan,"  he  said,  pulling 
the  rugs  round  him. 

The  driver's  mouth  half  opened  with  surprise,  then, 


^6  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

suddenly  whipping  up  his  horse,  they  clattered  down 
the  street  once  more  and  on  to  the  long  road  upon 
which  he  had  walked  back  from  the  parish  priest's 
house  on  that  afternoon  when  he  had  met  little  Annie 
Foley. 

The  details  of  the  different  parts  of  that  particular 
journey,  with  every  place  they  passed  which  brought 
his  memory  into  action,  came  back  vividly  to  his 
mind.  He  could  see  in  the  distance,  misted  and 
blurred  by  the  trails  of  falling  rain,  the  field  where  he 
had  gone  up  and  spoken  to  the  ploughman. 

"Why  had  Shaun  married  the  tinker's  widow  who 
was  already  possessed  of  two  children  by  her  first 
husband.'*" 

That  he  remembered  was  the  question  he  had  asked 
him.     And  what  had  been  the  ploughman's  reply? 

**  A  wife  with  two  children  is  better  than  none  at  all, 
when  yeer  afther  wantin'  to  get  married." 

And  he  had  gone  away  thinking  that  that  man's 
philosophy  was  at  fault.  Wearily  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  there  were  many  things  yet  to  be 
learnt  in  the  world  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 

The  drive  up  to  Father  Connelly's  house,  bright  as 
it  had  been  the  last  time  he  had  seen  it  with  the  little 
splashes  of  sunlight  that  were  falling  through  the 
trees,  was  now  gloomy  with  the  oppression  of  the 
ceaseless  rain.  In  the  distance  at  the  end  of  the 
avenue  the  space  before  the  house  showed  a  promise 
of  light  as  with  the  termination  of  a  tunnel,  yet  when 
they  came  to  it  and  pulled  up  before  the  hall  door 
the  sky  was  just  as  dark  as  ever. 

Father  Connelly  was  in,  and,  dismissing  Ryan,  the 


THE   LAW  277 

curate  walked  into  the  house.  A  savoury  smell  of 
the  approaching  dinner  reached  his  nostrils,  and  in 
another  moment,  having  been  acquainted  with  his 
arrival,  Father  Michael  heard  the  voice  of  the  parish 
priest  beginning  already,  before  he  had  seen  him,  to 
proclaim  his  welcome  in  tones  that  resounded  through 
the  whole  house. 

A  hundred  recollections  of  things  that  the  homely 
man  had  said  came  to  Father  Michael's  mind  when 
he  heard  these  advancing  proofs  of  hospitality; 
words,  the  truth  of  which  he  had  refuted  in  his  mind 
at  the  time,  but  which  now  returned  to  him  in  all 
the  glowing  light  of  his  experience. 

Presently  the  huge,  gaunt  figure  of  Father  Connelly 
appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  There  he 
stopped  and  looked  down  at  the  curate. 

**  In  the  name  of  goodness ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
brogue  that  to  Father  Michael  sounded  even  broader 
than  ever,  "  what's  the  attraction  about  this  country 
that  ye  come  back  to  it  on  a  day  like  this  before  yeer 
holiday  is   over  ?  " 

Then  he  laughed  loudly  as  he  descended  the  stairs. 

Father  Michael  waited  until  he  had  reached  the 
hall,  and  then  they  shook  hands. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  he  said. 

Father  Connelly's  eyes  were  small.  To  a  casual 
observer  it  would  have  seemed  that  very  little  ever 
attracted  their  attention,  but  in  one  swift  glance, 
after  Father  Michael  had  spoken,  he  had  taken  in 
more  than  most  people  who  knew  him  well  would  have 
given  him  credit  for.  In  that  brief  moment  he  pieced 
together  with  native  intuition  the  curate's  unexpected 


878  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

return,  his  coming  to  Ballysheen  on  such  an  after- 
noon, and  with  it  all  the  tone  of  his  voice  and  what  he 
had  said. 

What  Father  Michael  wished  indeed  to  tell  him  he 
did  not  know,  but  he  was  by  no  means  incapable  of  a 
shrewd  guess  that  there  was  something  weighing  on 
his  curate's  mind.  The  haggard  look  in  his  eyes,  the 
listless  motions  of  his  body  and  the  fixed  expression  of 
his  face  all  combined  to  show  the  suffering  he  had 
undergone. 

For  one  moment  Father  Connelly  paused,  and  the 
next,  with  a  laugh,  he  had  drawn  his  guest  into  the 
dining-room. 

"Ye've  got  something  to  tell  me.?"  he  said,  with 
his  genial  attempt  at  a  casual  manner.  "  Indeed 
then  ye'U  have  something  to  eat  with  me  first.  Shure, 
Molly's  got  a  fine,  large  leg  of  mutton  inside  there, 
and  she  won't  be  five  minutes  cooking  it."  He  sniffed 
the  air.  "  Faith,  I  can  smell  it  now.  'Twill  only  be 
a  moment.  Shure  'tis  coming,  I  can  hear  it  coming. 
Take  yeer  coat  off,  man,"  and  helping  Father  Michael 
off  with  his  coat  he  almost  forced  him  into  a  seat  at 
the  table. 


CHAPTER     XXXII 

So  they  dined  off  the  leg  of  mutton.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  Father  Michael  had  seen  evidence  of 
the  parish  priest's  appetite,  but  on  this  particular 
evening,  when  all  food  seemed  distasteful  to  him,  he 
marvelled  at  it. 

Father  Connelly  took  his  usual  portion  of  whisky, 
which  he  never  increased  and  never  diminished,  but 
with  all  the  insistence  of  his  persuasion  he  could  not 
induce  Father  Michael  to  allow  even  the  bottom  of 
his  glass  to  be  covered. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  finished  they  went  into  the 
drawing-room.  During  the  meal  Father  Connelly 
had  endeavoured  by  adroit  and  untiring  questioning 
to  draw  from  the  curate  his  opinions  upon  the  various 
places  that  he  had  seen,  and  all  the  answers  he 
received  but  confirmed  his  idea  that  some  serious 
matter  was  weighing  on  Father  Michael's  mind.  He 
was  therefore  not  in  any  way  surprised  to  hear  him 
say,  no  sooner  was  the  door  closed  behind  him — 

"  I  haven't  been  to  confession,  Father  Tom,  since  I 
went  away." 

This  was  it  then.  He  had  some  grievous  thing,  or 
what  he  considered  grievous,  to  confess,  and  in 
coming  to  lay  it  bare  to  him,  Father  Connelly  did 
not  fail  to  fully  appreciate  the  confidence  which  the 
curate  was  about  to  place  in  him.  Any  other  priest 
under  similar  circumstances  would  have  gone  to  make 
his  confession  to  a  priest  of  another  parish  where  he 

279 


280  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

was  unknown.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  custom.  There- 
fore, in  coming  to  him.  Father  Connelly  knew  that  it 
implied  not  merely  ordinary  confidence  but  a  degree 
of  friendship  which  he  also  felt  for  the  young  priest 
beside  him. 

"  Was  it  a  pilgrimage  ye  went  on  then  ?  "  he  asked 
with  a  serious  face,  "  faith,  I  thought  it  was  yeer 
holidays." 

"  I  know  it  was." 

There  were  times  when  to  Father  Michael  even  the 
parish  priest's  levity  seemed  out  of  place;  yet  there 
was  scarcely  any  one  who  knew  better  than  Father 
Connelly — and  it  was  solely  intution — ^where  a  light 
remark,  a  seeming  jest  could  blunt  the  too-keen  edge 
of  super-serious  sensitiveness.  He  was  fully  prepared 
to  hear  that  his  curate's  confession  was  of  a  sin  that 
he  himself  imagined  to  be  abnormal  in  its  guilt,  yet 
into  which  many  a  better  man  had  fallen. 

"  And  in  the  name  of  goodness,"  he  said,  "  is  it 
because  ye  are  a  priest  that  ye  can't  take  a  holiday 
as  it  was  meant  to  be?  Shure  when  I  have  a  holiday, 
faith  I  don't  leave  it,  I  take  it.  Isn't  it  only  because 
he  can't  celebrate  Mass  that  a  priest  has  to  make  his 
confession  before  every  Sunday.''  Ye  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  that  ye  have  so  many  sins  on  3reer  soul  that 
yeer  compelled  to  go  once  a  week  in  holiday  time.^* 
Yirra!  I  said  we'd  find  ye  just  the  same  when  ye 
came  back." 

"  But  I'm  not  the  same." 

"Faith,  then,  it'll  need  a  more  crabbit  man  than  I 
am  to  see  it." 

"But  I'm  not  the  same,"  Father  Michael  repeated 


THE   LAW  281 

vehemently.  "I'm  changed,  utterly  changed.  I've 
fallen.     I've  broken  my  vow." 

He  said  all  this  quickly,  spontaneously,  in  a  rush 
of  sudden  feeling.  It  was  understood,  as  he  meant  it 
to  be,  that  he  implied  his  vow  of  chastity. 

In  that  one  moment,  just  as  swiftly  as  he  had 
leamt  it,  all  the  expression  of  levity  dropped  from 
Father  Connelly's  eyes.  For  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  as  he  came  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on 
Father  Michael's  shoulder,  there  was  a  note  of  real 
pathos  in  his  voice,  though  the  curate  himself  was  too 
agitated  to  notice  it. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said. 

And  in  those  simple  words  was  conveyed  the  whole 
difference  in  their  natures,  their  age  and  everything 
about  them.  With  what  greater  degree  of  serious- 
ness did  not  this  confession  come  from  one  priest  to 
another  than  it  had  done  from  the  young  man, 
Charles  Morough,  to  Father  Michael.?  Yet  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  lay  between  the  ways  in  which 
each  had  taken  it. 

There  is  a  natural  celibate,  but  he  is  hard  to  find. 
He  is  a  man  so  full  of  nature  and  the  contemplation 
of  it  in  everything  and  every  one  but  himself  that  his 
actions  with  regard  to  his  own  body  are  almost 
mechnical.  Deep-rooted  in  his  mind  is  a  love  for 
all  human  kind  and  all  the  things  of  nature,  but  it  is 
altruistic  to  the  very  core.  Your  lover,  your  sensu- 
alist, your  friend  and  your  husband  even,  they  are 
egotists  all,  in  their  kindest  and  most  generous 
thoughts ;  self-seeking  in  their  most  unselfish  mo- 
ments.    But   the  natural   celibate — it  must  be  re- 


282  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

peated  he  Is  hard  to  find — ^he  is  an  altruist,  one  of  the 
few  men  who  can  be  cruel  to  be  kind. 

Such  a  man  was  Father  Connelly,  and  in  thinking 
that  Father  Michael  imputed  to  himself  the  utmost 
limit  of  his  sin  his  first  impulse  was  one  of  purest 
sympathy. 

It  had  never  been  an  expressed  opinion  of  his,  but 
he  considered  that  the  unspared  rod  should  be  ad- 
ministered before  and  in  the  face  of  the  sin  rather 
than  after  it  when  it  was  accomplished. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  repeated,  and  his  fingers 
tightened  on  the  shoulder  that  he  held.  "Don't 
worry  yerself  by  telling  me  about  it,  shure  the  ways 
of  the  world  are  all  alike,  once  ye've  heard  them  from 
one  human  being  ye  know  them  all  through.  Faith, 
I  was  wrong,  mind  ye,  ye  have  changed.  Glory  be 
to  God,  who'd  have  thought  it.?" 

He  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  side  of  a  small  table, 
resting  his  elbow  on  it  and  his  face  on  his  hand. 

*'  Why  don't  you  curse  at  me.''  "  said  Father  Michael 
bitterly.  It  was  beyond  him  still  to  understand  the 
passive  way  in  which  the  parish  priest  had  received 
his  admission. 

"Wisha,  what  would  be  the  good  of  that?  Ye 
might  just  as  well  tell  me  to  curse  at  me  young  heifer 
that  perished  while  ye  were  away.  Shure  she 
couldn't  help  it." 

**  How  do  you  know  I  couldn't  help  it?  " 

Having  once  sinned  Father  Michael  was  not  pre- 
pared to  accept  one  point  in  his  favour.  Utterly 
and  thoroughly  he  condemned  himself,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  others  should  do  the  same. 


THE  LAW  283 

"How  do  you  know  I  couldn't  help  it?"  he 
repeated  bitterly. 

"How  do  I  know?  Shure  is  it  how  do  I  know 
that  yeer  asking  me?  Faith,  because  ye  wouldn't 
have  done  it  if  ye  could  have  helped  it.  Shure 
what's  the  good  of  damning  yeerself  before  yeer 
dead?" 

"My  God!"  said  Father  Michael,  his  mind  was 
utterly  confused,  "  then  where's  the  justice  of  any- 
thing if  I  couldn't  have  helped  it  ?  " 

Father  Connelly  looked  up  slowly  into  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  he  began  quietly,  "d'ye  think  that 
when  the  Almighty  God  gives  a  man  the  strength  to 
do  a  great  deed  of  virtue  for  some  great  motive  of 
His  own  that  He  has  no  motive  when  a  man  commits 
a  great  sin  ?  " 

Father  Michael's  surprise  at  the  words  escaped  from 
him  in  a  quickly-taken  breath. 

"  You  think  God  makes  us  sin  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

Father  Connelly  held  up  his  hand. 

"Whisht!"  he  said.  "Mind  ye,  I  wouldn't  have 
said  such  a  thing  as  that  to  any  one  but  yeerself.  If 
I  were  to  say  that  down  in  Rathmore,  shure  the  whole 
parish  would  be  drunk  the  same  evening.  Now  listen 
to  me.  What  I  mean  is  this.  We  pray  that  God 
should  not  lead  us  into  temptation,  and  those  were 
the  words  of  Christ  Himself.  Well,  mind  ye,  if  He 
does,  shure  then  He  has  a  reason  for  it." 

"  But  a  priest,  breaking  his  vow  ?  " 

"  Can  ye  see  the  first  sign  of  blight  coming  on  a 
crop  of  potatoes  ?  "  Father  Connelly  asked  with  seem- 
ing irrelevance. 


884  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

"I  cannot  of  course." 

"  Then  Glory  be  to  God,  how  d'ye  expect  to  be  able 
to  see  the  motives  of  the  Almighty  in  the  bottom  of 
yeer  sins  ?  There's  a  reason  for  that  fly  that's  walk- 
ing up  the  wall  there  to  that  spider's  web,  and  faith 
it's  about  time  Molly  came  round  here  with  a  sweeping 
brush,  shure  there's  cobwebs  all  round  the  ceiling." 

Mechanically  Father  Michael  looked  above  his  head, 
then  back  again  to  the  ground. 

"  But  I  haven't  told  you  it  all  yet,"  he  said. 

*'  Shure  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  to  hear  it." 

"  But  I  must  tell  you.  I  hate  to,  I  despise  myself, 
but  I  can't  keep  it  to  myself." 

*' Faith  then,  my  boy,  if  it'll  ease  yer  mind — ah 
wisha,  God  help  us!  The  ways  of  this  world  must 
come  out  in  the  next,  shure  if  they  don't  we'll  be 
groping  about  in  the  dark  for  ever.  Tell  me  it,  yirra 
tell  me  it,"  and  he  covered  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Father  Michael  thought  that  the  action  implied  his 
despair ;  but  in  reality  he  was  hiding  his  face  in  order 
that  the  curate  might  feel  less  reluctance  in  his 
confession. 

So  there  in  that  high-ceilinged  drawing-room  with 
its  old  oil-lamp  and  faded  embellishments  Father 
Michael  dragged  from  himself  the  whole  tale  of  his 
misery. 

Every  word  as  he  uttered  it  stung  his  memory  with 
remorse,  and  yet  underlying  it  all  there  was  the  un- 
conscious presence  of  the  love  for  Roona  Lawless 
which  the  heat  of  those  stolen  kisses  had  burnt  into 
his  nature.  Had  her  sin  been  a  thousand  times 
greater,  he  would  still  have  loved  her,  though  he 


THE   LAW  285 

might  succeed  in  bringing  it  under  a  stronger  sub- 
mission than  he  ever  had  or  could  have  known  before. 

"  And  then,"  he  concluded  wearily,  for  the  con- 
fession had  sapped  from  him  all  the  passion  of  his 
sorrow,  "  as  we  were  coming  back  to  Duresne — I — ^I 
kissed  her." 

There  was  a  long  and  heavy  pause  after  his  last 
words.  During  the  whole  telling  of  the  story  Father 
Connelly  had  kept  his  hands  over  his  face,  but  now 
in  the  expectation  of  Father  Michael's  continuance 
he  looked  up. 

"  And — was  it  that  night  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

He  fancied  that  the  curate's  embarrassment  had 
overmastered  him. 

"  That  night  ?  "  Father  Michael  repeated  the  last 
words  with  an  expression  of  amazement.  "  That 
night?     That  is  all— I— I  kissed  her." 

When  the  mind  has  been  concentrating  Itself  upon 
a  point  of  extremest  apprehension  and  suddenly  finds 
the  tension  released  a  few  degrees  the  sense  of  relief 
is  almost  disproportionate. 

From  the  contemplation  of  the  utmost  limits  of 
Father  Michael's  first  admission  Father  Connelly  was 
in  a  moment  turned  to  see  the  whole  matter  in  another 
and  a  less  serious  light,  and  the  spirit  of  cheerful 
optimism  rose  exultant  In  him  to  accept  and  make 
the  best  of  it. 

From  a  dogmatic  standpoint  there  was  no  qualify- 
ing outlook  on  Father  Michael's  sin.  The  breaking 
of  the  vow  of  chastity  Is  a  mortal  sin  brought  about 
by  thought,  word,  deed  or  contemplation,  and,  what- 
ever It  may  be,  as  mortal  it  will  remain  and  must  be 


286  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

judged.  But  there  are  mitigating  circumstances. 
Had  the  curate  gratified  the  desire  of  his  sin  to  the 
fullest  measure,  then  the  means  to  combat  and  con- 
ceal the  results  in  order  to  preserve  the  good  name 
and  reputation  of  the  Holy  Church  would  need  to  be 
stem,  unrelenting  and  effectual.  If  need  be,  even  the 
threat  of  excommunication  would  have  to  be  resorted 
to  with  the  persons  concerned,  that  such  disedifying 
scandal  might  be  suppressed.  Then,  indeed,  the 
matter  would  have  been  serious,  demanding  serious 
treatment.  But  as  it  was,  there  could  be  no  results, 
no  proof  even  of  the  action  itself,  though  all  this  in 
no  way  lessened  the  fact  that  his  vow  was  broken ;  that 
he  had  committed  a  mortal  sin. 

In  calling  such  reasons  to  his  mind  Father  Connelly 
acted  with  similar  method  to  the  machine.  There 
was  no  trace  of  sentiment  in  his  thoughts  as  he 
weighed  the  confession  in  this  strange  balance  of 
theological  jurisprudence.  It  was  the  first  point  of 
view  that  he  was  bound  to  take,  and  with  the  second, 
the  personal  nature  of  his  character  alone  was 
brought  into  existence. 

Father  Michael  had  only  kissed  the  woman.  He 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  could  see  no  great  degree 
of  pleasure  in  such  an  action,  but  still  it  comprised 
the  breaking  of  the  vow  of  chastity,  and  in  that  light 
alone  he  looked  at  it.  In  that  light  alone  he  felt  all 
the  sympathy  and  pity  of  his  altruistic  nature  go  out 
to  the  man  whose  qualities  he  probably  admired  the 
more  for  this  sign  of  humanity. 

He  gave  no  word  of  expression  to  all  these  thoughts, 
so  that  Father  Michael  himself  was  utterly  unaware 


THE   LAW  28-7 

of  all  that  was  passing  in  his  mind.  In  the  first 
moment  that  he  heard  the  curate  say  he  had  sinned 
no  further  than  kissing  her  Father  Connelly  had  felt 
incHned  to  laugh;  not  out  of  amusement  at  the 
admission,  but  from  sheer  relief.  His  friendship  for 
Father  Michael  had  made  him  dread  the  impending 
possibiHty  of  his  having  to  recommend  him  to  an 
audience  with  the  Bishop,  and  when  he  had  found 
that  it  was  unnecessary  his  pleasure  almost  sought 
relief  in  laughter.  But  such  expression  as  that,  he 
was  quick  enough  to  see,  would  hurt  Father  Michael's 
susceptibilities ;  although  to  all  who  knew  him  it 
seemed  that  sensitiveness  made  up  no  intrinsic  part 
of  his  character.  Yet  he  was  very  careful  in  his 
shrewd,  though  often  clumsy,  way  of  the  mental 
hurts  that  he  gave  to  others. 

**You — you  only  kissed  her.?"  he  said  at  length 
when  he  had  drummed  out  all  his  thoughts  with  his 
knuckles  on  the  table. 

"  That  is  aU.     Glory  be  to  God,  wasn't  it  enough .'' " 

Father  Connelly  looked  up  into  the  curate's  eyes. 

"  Faith,  it's  well  you  found  it  so,"  he  said. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  asked  Father  Michael  wildly. 
"  I  must  go  to  the  Bishop.  I  must  be  silenced.  I've 
broken  my  vow." 

Father  Connelly  rose  from  his  seat  and  took  the 
curate  by  the  shoulders,  holding  him  rigidly  with  his 
strong  hands  as  though  he  had  been  a  child. 

"  There  are  some  fools  that  are  fools  by  choice,"  he 
said  slowly,  "  and  some  that  are  fools  by  nature,  and, 
in  the  name  of  God,  don't  ye  be  both.  Ye  made  a 
fool  of  yeerself  with  that  woman,  shure  that's  the 


«88  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

nature  of  ye ;  but,  for  God's  sake,  don't  go  bringing 
the  Bishop's  remarks  on  yeer  head  when  I  can  give 
ye  the  worst  talking  to  ye  ever  had  in  yeer  life. 
Yirra,  man,  have  some  respect  for  yeer  sins.  That 
doesn't  prevent  ye  from  being  sorry  for  them.  It 
isn't  because  ye  made  a  mistake  that  ye  must  go  and 
tell  the  whole  world  about  it.  Take  it  as  a  lesson 
and  keep  it  to  yeerself.  Shure  ye'U  learn  a  mighty 
lot  from  it  that  ye  never  knew  before.  Yirra,  men 
like  you  go  and  take  the  justice  out  of  God's  hands 
and  pronounce  your  own  damnation  before  the 
Almighty  has  had  the  time  to  see  how  much  mercy 
ye  deserve.  Make  good  come  out  of  evil,  man ! 
Shure  if  it  wasn't  for  that  sort  of  alchemy  this  world 
would  be  one  mass  of  stagnant,  unconverted  sin.  Do 
ye  know  this.  Father  Michael,  ye  must  have  been  as 
simple  as  one  of  those  children  down  in  the  village 
when  ye  went  up  to  Maynooth.?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  was." 

The  parish  priest  had  released  his  hold  of  Father 
Michael's  shoulders  and  was  contemplating  him  from 
a  distance.  When  he  admitted  the  supposition 
Father  Connelly  nodded  his  head. 

"  Ye  didn't  go  to  school  anywhere  else  ? "  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  Only  at  Ballyporeen.     The  village  school." 

"  And  how  old  were  ye  when  ye  went  up  to  May- 
nooth.?" 

"Fifteen.     About  fifteen." 

"  And  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  twenty-six." 

Father  Connelly  turned  round  and  looked  thought- 


THE  LAW  289 

fully  into  the  cheerless  grate  where  no  fire  was 
burning. 

"  Twenty-one  then  I  suppose  ye  were  when  ye  took 
the  step  ?  "  he  said  without  looking  back. 

"  Yes — twenty-one." 

"  Now  tell  me,  Father  Michael,"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly  wheeling  round  and  facing  his  companion, 
"  did  ye  know  what  ye  were  doing — all  ye  were  doing 
— when  ye  took  the  step.''  Did  ye  know  all  that  it 
meant  at  all?" 

Father  Michael  moved  uneasily  on  his  chair. 

"  Shure  I  don't  see  how  you  mean } "  he  said  un- 
comfortably. 

Father  Connelly  closed  his  eyes  patiently. 

"I  may  be  wrong,  mind  ye,"  he  said,  beginning 
with  his  old  formula,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  that  when 
ye  took  the  step  ye  knew  no  more  of  what  ye  were 
doing  than  I  do  when  I  make  an  afternoon  visit  and 
they  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  piece  of  cake  with  no 
plate  to  put  it  on.  Now,  I  told  ye  I'd  be  having 
something  to  say  to  ye,  and  I  want  to  know  why,  in 
the  name  of  goodness,  ye  took  the  step  at  all  ?  " 

Father  Michael  rose  from  his  chair.  This  was  the 
last  reproach  he  thought  he  deserved.  Had  he 
known,  it  was  far  from  reproach  that  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  Father  Connelly's  words.  He  was  indeed 
but  endeavouring  to  argue  with  himself  the  existence 
of  justice  in  a  scheme  of  things  where  in  reality  there 
was  no  justice  at  all,  and  the  curate  was  but  an 
instance,  far  from  personal,  in  his  mind. 

"  It  seems  quite  plain  enough,  without  reminding 
me,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shouldn't  have  been  a  priest  at 


290  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

all.  But  I  didn't  know,  I  didn't  half  realize  all  the 
vow  meant.  I  wanted  to  be  a  priest,  my  people 
wanted  me  to  be  a  priest.  It  seemed  the  noblest  and 
the  grandest  thing  in  the  world  to  me  then ;  it  seems 
so  now.  Every  one  respects  you,  every  one  honours 
you,  but  now  I  shan't  dare  to  look  any  one  in  the  face. 
I  shall  feel  a  hypocrite.     God  help  me ! " 

"  Shure  ye  may  say  that  well  enough,  because  ye 
don't  seem  to  be  willing  to  help  yeerself ." 

"  How  can  I  help  myself?  " 

*'  Go  back  to  your  duties  like  a  man.  It  isn't  every 
one  who  can  be  a  saint,  and  some  of  those  who  have 
been  began  by  sinning  first.  Shure  the  noblest  call- 
ing in  the  world  is  not  pigs  in  a  field  of  clover  all 
the  time.  It'll  be  hard  work  for  ye  to  go  on  with  yeer 
duties  and  that  thing  lying  on  yeer  conscience,  and, 
Glory  be  to  God !  shure  the  harder  it  is  the  more  credit 
there  is  in  doing  it.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me.  Father 
Michael,  that  ye  would  go  to  the  next  convention, 
and  look  about  ye,  and  say,  *A11  these  priests  are 
saints,  and  I'm  a  sinner  ?  '  Would  ye,  now  ?  Tell  me 
that;  would  ye?" 

"I  should;  I  should  indeed." 

"Wisha,  then,  may  the  Almighty  give  ye  sense. 
Faith,  it's  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  strong,  talkative 
conscience  with  a  good  pair  of  lungs,  but  I'd  sooner 
be  able  to  get  a  word  in  edgeways  myself — I  would 
so.  And,  mind  ye,  I'm  not  saying  but  that  what 
ye've  done  isn't  just  as  much  a  sin  as  ye  think  it  is 
yeerself;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  what  a  man's  once 
done  can't  be  undone;  he  can  only  build  over  it  and 
cover  it  up,  so  that  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes 


THE   LAW  291 

it'll  be  missed  or  beaten  out  of  shape  in  the  counting. 
But  faith,  if  ye  put  it  by  itself  and  let  it  stare  ye  in 
the  face  for  the  rest  of  yeer  life,  ye'll  have  wasted  all 
yeer  valuable  time  looking  at  it." 

"  You  haven't  done  what  I  have  done,"  said  Father 
Michael  bitterly. 

"  And  how  do  ye  know  I  haven't  ?  "  asked  the  parish 
priest  quickly.  "As  it  happens,  ye're  right.  But 
d'ye  think  I  haven't  done  what  I'm  just  as  sorry  for? 
Faith,  I  should  have  been  in  Rathmore  the  night  little 
Mary  Troy  died  if  I'd  only  taken  the  trouble  to 
walk  in.  But  my  horse  had  gone  lame  and  I  was 
too  lazy.  Not  that  I  knew  I'd  be  wanted  like  that, 
mind  ye;  but  I  ought  to  have  gone  in,  and  then  the 
little  child  wouldn't  have  left  this  world  without  the 
last  sacrament.  I  can  tell  ye,  Father  Michael,  I'd 
sooner  have  yeer  sin  on  my  conscience — ^not  because 
I'd  have  liked  the  pleasure  of  committing  it,  mind 
ye — ^but  I'd  sooner  feel  the  sorrow  for  that  than  the 
shame  I  felt  when  Mrs.  Troy  walked  all  the  way  out 
here  that  night  in  the  rain  just  simply  to  tell  me 
about  it.  Shure  ye  can  talk  about  contrition  and 
penitence  when  ye're  standing  up  in  yeer  own  shoes 
with  every  ability  ye  have  still  left  to  mortify  yeer- 
self  for  yeer  sin,  but  ye  can't  administer  the  last 
sacrament  to  any  one  that's  passed  out  of  this  world 
into  the  next.     Ye  cannot." 

The  remembrance  of  what  he  had  done  brought  a 
deep  sign  of  regret  from  him,  and  when  he  looked 
towards  the  light  of  the  old  oil-lamp  there  was  an 
unusual  lustre  in  his  grey  eyes. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  he  said  fiercely,  "  tell  me  truthfully, 


292  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

is  yeer  mind  firmly  made  up  to  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  this — this  girl — ^never  to  see  her  again? 
Mind  ye,  I  don't  want  any  explanations ;  I  just  want 
to  know  whether  ye've  made  up  yeer  mind  to  that  or 
not?" 

Father  Michael  looked  about  him.  The  parish 
priest  gave  him  a  moment's  grace  before  he  spoke, 
and  when  he  got  no  immediate  answer  he  broke  in 
on  the  silence. 

"I  see  ye  haven't  made  up  yeer  mind,"  he  said 
conclusively ;  "  so  now  let  me  tell  ye  this — and,  mind 
ye,  I'm  speaking  as  straightly  as  I  want  ye  to  speak 
to  me.  If  ye're  going  to  remain  in  Orders,  ye  must 
see  nothing  more  of  her.  She  may  do  her  best  to  see 
something  of  ye " 

"No,  she  won't,"  Father  Michael  interrupted,  re- 
membering that  at  the  time  Roona  had  said  it  was 
wrong ;  "  I'm  nothing  to  her." 

"  Shure,  that's  better  than  I  thought  it  was  then. 
It  all  rests  with  yeerself .  So,  if  ye're  going  to  remain 
in  Orders,  there  must  be  no  more  of  her.  It's  the 
law.  Never  mind  how  it  was  made,  who  made  it,  or 
whether  it's  right  or  wrong — ^if  ye  begin  asking  yeer- 
self those  questions  ye're  done  for — but  it's  the  law, 
and  ye've  got  to  choose  between  her  and  the  law. 
Now,  man,  as  straight  as  I'm  speaking,  which  is  it 
to  be?" 

The  pause  was  almost  imperceptible  this  time. 

*'The  law,"  said  the  curate.  "I've  been  a  fool. 
I'm  nothing  to  her.  The  law,"  and  he  bowed  his 
head. 

Father  Connelly  came  a  little  closer  to  him.. 


THE   LAW  293 

"But  what  is  she  to  you?"  he  asked  In  a  strained 
undertone. 

"  The  law,"  Father  Michael  simply  repeated,  and  it 
might  or  might  not  have  been  an  answer  to  the 
question. 


BOOK  V 
THE  SACRAMENT, 


*'I  am  he  indeed,  thou  knowest,  and  he  is  I. 
Not  man  and  woman  several  as  we  were, 
But  one  thing  with  one  life  and  death  to  bear." 
A.  C.  SwiNBUBNE,  "  Iseult  at  TintageL" 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

The  stress  of  circumstances  is  accountable  for  many 
things,  but  perhaps  it  is  most  responsible  of  all  for 
the  celebration  of  the  sacrament  of  matrimony. 

It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  week  after  Father 
Michael's  departure  from  Duresne  that  Roona  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  mother,  telling  her  in  a  plain, 
unvarnished  way  that  they  could  no  longer  aiford  to 
keep  her  in  France  at  the  apparently  useless  study  of 
painting. 

Roona  herself  was  fully  aware  that  it  was  useless, 
and  was  preparing  herself  to  make  the  suggestion 
that  she  should  return.  She  was  still  filled  with 
ambition,  but  fate  sometimes  is  unkind,  and  will  not 
allow  that  to  spell  ability.  However,  to  be  told  that 
she  must  return  because  they  could  not  afford  to 
support  her  there,  of  course  it  was  very  depressing, 
and  certainly  was  quite  another  matter  to  coming 
back  of  her  own  accord. 

But  she  endeavoured  to  make  the  best  of  it.  On 
the  evening  that  she  had  received  the  letter  she  had 
retired  early  to  her  room,  and  read  Browning  by  the 
light  of  one  small  candle.  When  she  came  to  "  Night 
and  Morning,"  her  thoughts  reverted  to  Father 
Michael.  He  had  been  in  her  mind  many  times 
since  his  departure ;  in  fact,  she  found  his  personality 
almost  impossible  to  dispel. 

Once,  when  the  thought  had  flown  through  her  mind, 
she  had  considered  that  were  such  a  thing  possible 

297 


298  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

he  would  prove  a  lethargic  lover.  In  both  respects 
she  had  been  wrong.  It  had  been  possible;  and  she 
knew  that  never  again  in  her  life  would  she  realize 
from  any  other  man  the  great  storm  of  passion 
which  he  had  spent  in  those  kisses  on  her  lips. 

At  the  time  it  had  almost  frightened  her.  Pressing 
her  lips  against  his  teeth  he  had  caused  the  skin  to  be 
lacerated  on  the  inside,  and  that  had  given  her  pain ; 
but  with  all  its  tempestuous  suddenness  it  had  carried 
her  away.  She  could  not  forget  it.  Many  times 
since,  she  had  wakened  in  the  night  feeling  the  power- 
ful vitality  of  his  strength,  the  crushing  force  of  his 
arms  and  his  passionate  breath  on  her  cheeks.  It 
was  all  impossible  to  forget,  and  with  the  remem- 
brance of  it  still  haunting  her  she  returned  to  Ireland. 

Ireland  is  a  small  place,  but  then  there  are  many 
priests  and  she  knew  that  she  would  never  see  him 
again.  Once,  in  as  casual  a  tone  as  she  could  assume, 
she  had  asked  Mrs.  Warren  where  in  the  south  of 
Ireland  his  parish  was,  but  the  good  lady  had  not 
known. 

"  Sister  Conception  up  at  the  convent  will  tell  you," 
she  had  said,  but  at  the  last  moment  in  the  commotion 
of  saying  good-bye  to  at  least  fifteen  nuns  she  had 
not  had  the  opportunity  to  ask. 

So  Roona  returned  to  Lee  to  find  that  Charles 
Morough  had  already  spoken  to  her  parents  and  that 
they  were  in  the  higher  stages  of  enthusiasm  at  the 
thought  of  her  marriage.  The  death  of  a  relative 
had  changed  the  world  for  him. 

At  the  first  opportunity  she  had  of  seeing  him  alone 
she  told  him  once  more  that  all  her  caring  for  him  had 


THE    SACRAMENT  299 

ceased.  It  was  not  so  hard  to  confess  for  the  second 
time,  and  with  the  memory  of  some  of  the  things  that 
he  had  said  in  Paris  which  still  rankled  in  her  mind 
she  did  not  try  to  spare  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
he  had  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  her  absence,  the 
more  so  since  her  love  for  him  was  dead ;  and  knowing 
that  the  minds  of  her  parents  were  fixed  upon  the 
consummation  of  his  proposal,  she  thought  this  to  be 
the  only  opportunity  of  escape  from  a  state  of  life 
which  she  knew  would  be  miserable  to  her. 

But  with  the  confidence  that  he  had  gained  from  her 
father  and  mother  he  remained  obdurate.  He  told 
her,  with  a  great  display  of  dogmatic  principle,  that 
it  would  be  no  less  than  a  very  grievous  sin  if  she  did 
not  marry  him ;  that  in  fact  there  only  lay  the  way  of 
their  reparation.  All  the  threadbare  right  of  con- 
vention was  on  his  side  against  her,  and  his  words 
sufficiently  affected  her  to  ask  the  question  in  con- 
fession, where  she  only  received  the  same  answer. 

"  The  reward  of  folly  is  pain,"  said  the  priest  gran- 
diloquently, and  she  felt  that  he  had  but  little  sym- 
pathy with  her,  as  indeed  it  seemed  had  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

Perhaps  the  only  result  it  all  had  was  to  harden  her 
mind  and  her  heart.  She  gave  way  in  the  end  to  her 
mother's  importunity,  as  after  her  confession  she  had 
felt  that  she  would  be  compelled  to  do. 

And  so,  in  St.  Patrick's  Church,  before  what  the 
little  local  papers  with  no  conscious  intention  of  a 
superfluity  of  journalism  called  a  large  and  fashion- 
able gathering,  Roona  Lawless  was  married  to 
Charles  Morough. 


300  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

In  the  hushed  silence  of  the  church  she  answered 
mechanically  to  the  questions  which  sounded  like  Iron- 
ical shouts  In  her  ears.  Every  word  she  uttered  was 
a  probe  to  undermine  her  sentiment  In  religion,  and 
for  a  long  time  after  that  day  It  all  seemed  a  mockery 
to  her.  The  priest  who  married  them  was  the  same 
who  had  heard  her  confession. 

It  had  been  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  Paris 
for  their  honeymoon;  Paris,  the  zenith  of  ambition 
with  all  newly  and  fashionably-wedded  couples  in  Lee. 
When  they  told  Roona,  she  refused  to  go,  protesting 
that  she  preferred  any  place  to  that,  and  so  they  went 
to  Klllarney.  In  a  fortnight  when  they  returned  she 
felt  that  life  could  offer  nothing  but  the  most  weary 
form  of  existence  that  a  woman  can  endure ;  the  mind- 
ing of  a  house  whose  master  is  her  husband  In  little 
more  than  name. 

At  first  she  thought  it  would  be  an  Impossibility, 
but  human  nature  can  acclimatize  Itself  to  the  most 
foreign  circumstances,  and  when  a  year  had  passed 
over  her  head,  though  she  had  no  child  to  compensate 
for  the  uneven  balancing  of  her  life,  the  pendulum  of 
her  existence  seemed  to  swing  if  not  less  monoto- 
nously at  least  more  smoothly  than  at  first. 

And  so  this  state  might  have  continued,  had  not  one 
incident  broken  in  upon  the  even  and  melancholy 
routine  of  her  life.  As  with  most  of  the  things  that 
are  effectual,  it  was  sudden  and  unexpected,  and  the 
impression  that  it  left  upon  her  mind  when  it  had 
passed  was  one  that,  like  the  canker  worm  in  the 
heart  of  the  plant,  consumed  its  way  into  the  very 
centre  of  her  being. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

On  the  Sunday  before  the  feast  of  the  Ascension 
it  had  been  announced  from  the  pulpit  of  St.  Peter 
and  Paul's  Church,  where  Roona  had  attended  since 
her  marriage,  that  the  Reverend  Father  Connelly  of 
Rathmore  would  preach  the  two  following  Sundays. 

In  itself  it  meant  nothing  to  her  beyond  her  deter- 
mination to  come  to  the  twelve-o'clock  instead  of 
some  earlier  Mass.  Fond  as  she  was  of  reading, 
she  had  a  critical  appreciation  also  for  oratory,  and 
whenever  a  strange  priest  preached  at  the  church  she 
made  a  point  of  coming  to  hear  him. 

Father  Tom  Connelly  indeed  it  was  who  had  been 
invited  to  come  up  to  Lee  and  preach  on  th^  feast 
day  of  the  Ascension  and  the  following  Sunday  within 
the  Octave.  But  had  Roona  read  the  church  notices 
pinned  to  the  green-baize-covered  board  that  hung 
within  the  porch  she  would  have  seen  during  the  week 
that  the  name  of  Father  Connelly  had  been  changed. 
His  name  was  scratched  out  and  that  of  Father 
Everett  written  over  it. 

The  good  man  had  certainly  been  invited  to  preach 
on  those  two  Sundays  and  had  accepted ;  but  seeing 
in  this  invitation  an  opportunity  to  do  a  kind  service 
to  his  curate,  he  had  written  again  to  the  parish  priest 
at  St.  Peter  and  Paul's,  telling  him  that  he  found  he 
would  be  unable  to  come  as  he  had  promised,  and 
enthusiastically  recommending  Father  Michael  in  his 
place. 

301 


302  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

He  knew  that  this  might  bring  the  curate  under 
the  notice  of  the  Bishop — a  fact  that  he  was  most 
desirous  to  accomplish;  for  though  Father  Michael 
had  to  all  outward  appearance  lived  down  the  remem- 
brance of  his  transgression  yet  the  parish  priest  was 
fully  aware  of  the  poverty  of  the  curate's  opinion  of 
himself.  He  hoped  then  that  this  opportunity  would 
raise  him  in  his  own  estimation,  and  at  the  probable 
expense  of  losing  the  chance  altogether  had  sent  this 
generous  recommendation  of  Father  Michael  in  the 
place  of  his  own  services. 

Having  announced  that  a  new  priest  would  preach 
the  next  two  Sundays,  the  parish  priest  of  St.  Peter 
and  Paul's  did  not  like  to  withdraw  the  statement, 
so  the  recommendation  was  accepted,  and  Father 
Michael  came  up  to  Lee  the  next  Sunday  in  time  for 
the  twelve-o'clock  Mass.  That  was  the  fashion- 
able celebration  at  St.  Peter  and  Paul's. 

Going  early  to  the  church,  and  failing  even  then 
to  notice  the  alteration  of  the  announcement,  Roona 
secured  for  herself  a  prominent  seat  near  the  pulpit. 

For  the  last  few  months  her  husband  never  accom- 
panied her  to  Mass,  choosing  rather  to  go  to  the 
chapel  nearest  their  house  where  the  service  was 
not  sufficiently  fashionable  to  call  for  its  being  pro- 
longed. 

During  the  celebration  the  pulpit  prevented  her 
from  seeing  the  altar  where  the  priests  were  offici- 
ating, and  as  soon  as  the  Mass  was  over,  when  those 
members  of  the  congregation  who  did  not  wish  to 
wait  for  the  sermon  had  left  the  church,  she  sat  down 
in  her  seat,  setthng  herself  comfortably  in  anticipa- 


THE   SACRAMENT  303 

tion  of  the  final  part  of  the  service  to  which  she  had 
been  looking  forward. 

She  was  not  looking  at  the  pulpit  when  Father 
Michael  entered  it,  but  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as, 
kissing  the  stole,  he  put  it  about  his  shoulders  and 
blessed  the  congregation — "In  the  name  of  the 
Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Amen," — she  turned  quickly  and  looked  up  at  his 
face. 

How  vividly  and  vitally  it  brought  all  things  back 
to  her,  she  could  not  have  explained.  In  all  the  days 
that  she  had  thought  about  him  since  her  marriage 
she  had  realized  more  fully  every  time  the  violence 
and  the  agony  of  the  struggle  which  must  have  passed 
through  his  mind  before  he  gave  way  to  the  passion- 
ate desire  of  his  temptation.  With  the  rush  of  blood 
that  it  often  brought  to  her  cheeks,  she  had  known 
that  even  so,  relenting  and  weak  as  he  had  been, 
he  had  curbed  himself  from  the  satisfaction  of  the 
greater  sin,  and  seeing  his  white,  expressive  face 
before  her  then,  she  knew  that  had  he  sinned  to 
the  utmost  it  would  but  have  increased  her  love  for 
him. 

It  was  not  a  thought  to  pass  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances through  a  woman's  mind,  but  in  that 
Roona  had  known  life  and  found  disappointment  she 
was  different  from  others  of  her  class.  It  was  not 
alone  that  she  wished  for  love,  passionate  with  all  the 
strength  of  its  vitality,  but  that  she  knew  also  the 
fierce  pleasure  of  giving  it  herself,  and  as  she  saw 
Father  Michael  again  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
kissed  her,  she  felt  that  with  him  only  could  such 


304  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

mutual  relationship  be  found.  No  sooner  had  the 
thought  entered  her  mind  than,  in  terror  lest  it  should 
take  hold  of  her,  she  put  it  away.  But  thoughts  are 
seeds,  and  if  once  let  fall  in  the  mind  they  take  silent 
root  and  grow  into  the  flower  of  action. 

As  he  announced  his  text,  the  sun  outside,  coming 
from  behind  a  cloud,  shone  through  one  of  the  church 
windows  full  on  the  pew  in  which  Roona  was  sitting, 
and  then  it  was  with  the  glint  of  light  on  her  red  hair 
that  Father  Michael  saw  her. 

"Whosesoever  sins  ye  forgive,"  he  read  out  slowly, 
**  they  shall  be  forgiven  " — then  he  stopped  with  a 
breath,  and  Roona,  feeling  sure  that  he  was  aware  of 
her  presence,  felt  as  though  her  heart  had  stopped  at 
his  silence,  and  then  went  bounding  on  again  as  with 
a  less  steady  voice  he  continued — "And  whosesoever 
sins  ye  retain  they  shall  be  retained." 

For  one  moment  after  his  text  was  delivered,  and 
in  the  pause  that  followed  its  delivery,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  failing  to  continue,  that  she  was  the 
cause  of  it,  and  that  some  terrible  calamity  was 
about  to  happen.  The  inclination  to  get  up  and 
leave  the  church  was  strong  within  her,  but  she  had 
not  the  courage  to  carry  it  into  execution,  and  in  that 
moment  when  she  thought  that  the  strain  could  no 
longer  continue,  he  began  his  sermon. 

Most  Irishmen  are  possessed  of  some  native  elo- 
quence; it  is  inherent  in  them;  but  amongst  the 
priesthood  their  language  is  sometimes  of  too  flowery 
a  nature  to  be  really  convincing.  But  with  Father 
Michael,  who  from  the  very  beginning  of  his  clercial 
education  had  bound  himself  to  the  study  of  dry- 


THE  SACRAMENT  305 

worded  philosophy,  the  style  of  oratory  was  rather 
didactic  than  verbose.  And  though  at  the  commence- 
ment of  his  discourse  the  emotion  which  he  felt  at 
seeing  Roona  had  made  him  nervous  and  hesitating 
yet  it  did  not  take  her  long  to  realize  that,  as  she 
once  had  said  in  Duresne,  he  was  clever,  remarkably 
so,  in  his  own  way. 

From  the  subject  of  the  Ascension  and  the  text 
which  he  had  taken  he  drew  forth  his  thoughts  and 
those  of  his  congregation,  upon  the  powers,  duties, 
and  responsibilities  of  the  priesthood  with  regard  to 
confession. 

It  was  a  most  able  sermon,  the  ablest  and  most 
convincing  that  Roona  had  ever  heard,  and  she  lis- 
tened to  it — though  not  daring  to  look  up  again 
and  meet  his  eyes — with  all  the  concentration  of  her 
mind. 

At  the  last  words  she  ventured  to  raise  her  head, 
and  in  the  minute  of  silence  that  followed  before  the 
blessing  their  eyes  met  with  the  full  and  open  light 
of  recognition.  In  his  she  saw  the  gleam  of  fear 
as  when  in  the  chase  the  quarry  lifts  its  head  and 
scents  the  approach  of  the  pursuer,  and  in  hers,  it 
seemed  to  him,  he  saw  a  message  of  the  same  love 
that  he  knew  he  still  felt  for  her. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,"  he  said  again,  and  then  having 
crossed  herself  she  rose  and  left  the  church. 

During  all  the  rest  of  the  week  until  the  next 
Sunday  her  mind  was  harassed  with  doubt  as  to 
whether  she  should  go  to  hear  his  second  sermon. 
All  her  inclination  prompted  her  to  say  that  she 


THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

would;  for  in  that  last  moment,  in  the  meeting  of 
their  eyes,  the  remembrance  of  his  kisses  came  back 
to  her,  and  sin  though  she  knew  it  to  be,  she  felt 
that  she  loved  him  to  the  entire  yielding  of  herself, 
as  once  she  thought  she  had  loved  the  man  who  was 
now  her  husband.  Physically  and  intellectually  she 
found  in  Father  Michael  the  personality  which  she 
was  sure  could  fulfil  all  the  desires  of  her  life;  yet 
she  was  married  and  he — never  did  she  think  that 
passion  could  have  carried  her  so  far  into  sin — ^he  was 
a  priest  of  the  Holy  Church. 

At  night  when  her  husband  was  asleep  she  kept 
close  to  herself,  and  the  more  th€  thought  of  Father 
Michael  occupied  her  mind  the  more  she  shuddered 
when  her  body  came  into  contact  with  that  of  her 
companion. 

Before  the  week  had  half  worn  itself  away  she  felt 
that  she  could  bear  this  mockery  of  intimate  relation- 
ship no  longer. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  slept  in  the  spare  room?" 
she  said  one  morning  to  her  husband,  when,  in  the 
night  before,  her  thoughts  had  reached  a  climax. 

"Why?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  had  anticipated  that  her  reasons  would  be 
wanted,  and  so  she  was  prepared. 

**rm  very  sorry,"  she  replied,  "but  you  keep  me 
awake." 

"How?" 

"Oh,  you  move  about  a  great  deal  in  your  sleep." 

*'Not  intentionally." 

"  Naturally,  I  said  in  your  sleep." 

"Well,  I'll  try  not  to." 


THE  SACRAMENT  307 

**You  object  to  my  sleeping  in  the  spare  room, 
then?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.     You're  my  wife." 

"  Would  that  make  me  anything  else  ?  " 

"  A  wife's  proper  place  is  by  her  husband.'* 

She  rose  from  the  breakfast-table  where  they  were 
sitting  and  left  the  room.  The  next  three  nights 
passed  slowly  like  phantoms,  and  lying  awake  Roona 
counted  all  the  hours  as  they  crept  slowly  into  day- 
light. 

When  Sunday  came  round  again  she  found  herself 
going  to  St.  Peter  and  Paul's.  It  had  been  inevita- 
ble. Two  days  before,  she  had  given  way  in  her  mind 
to  her  inclinations,  deciding  that  probably  this  would 
be  the  last  time  she  would  see  him. 

It  was  not  entirely  her  fault  that  she  had  grown  to 
love  him  she  tried  to  tell  herself.  He  had  sown  the 
seed  with  his  kisses,  and  could  she  really  be  blamed 
that  now  it  was  yielding  its  fruit.''  But  there  was 
little  comfort  to  be  gained  from  the  thought,  and 
it  did  not  stay  long  with  her  to  ease  her  mind. 

Her  hands  were  covering  her  face  when  he  came 
into  the  pulpit,  but  between  her  fingers  she  saw  that 
he  sought  and  singled  her  out  from  all  the  congre- 
gation. It  had  not  been  difficult,  because  she  was 
sitting  in  exactly  the  same  place. 

And  then  followed  his  sermon;  preached  to  her, 
at  her,  into  her  very  heart  with  all  the  strength  of 
eloquence  that  he  possessed.  In  every  word  of  it 
she  could  trace  his  feelings,  in  every  sentence  see  the 
framing  of  his  thoughts,  and  for  her  alone  out  of  all 
that  multitude  of  people  were  those  vital  words  de- 


d08  TBE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

livered.  She  knew  it,  felt  it,  and  in  her  heart  built 
up  the  rest  of  her  life  upon  the  foundation  of  all 
that  he  said;  for  then,  shielded  by  the  pulpit  rails, 
fortified  by  the  vestments  that  he  wore,  and  inspired 
by  the  solemnity  of  his  surroundings,  he  was  a  priest 
of  God  indeed. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

**  *  Before  thou  makest  a  vow,  prepare  thyself ;  and 
be  not  as  a  man  that  tempteth  the  Lord.*  The 
eighteenth  chapter  of  Ecclesiasticus  and  the  twenty- 
third  verse." 

He  paused  and  his  eyes  challenged  Roona's.  Then 
he  began. 

"Dearly  Beloved  Brethren — ^what  is  a  vow?" 

He  waited,  as  though  in  expectation  of  an  answer. 

"What  is  a  vow?"  he  repeated  quietly  as  he  con- 
tinued. "It  is  a  holy  and  personal  sacrament  of  a 
man's  life,  by  which  he  binds  himself  to  the  fulfilment 
of  a  certain  promise.  But  it  is  no  social  bond.  In 
the  truest  meaning  of  the  word  he  brings  God  to 
witness  the  promise  who  makes  or  takes  a  vow,  and 
the  presence  of  the  Almighty  is  such  that  it  cannot 
be  lightly  called  upon.  A  vow  must  be  voluntarily 
made,  must  be  openly  made,  must  be  consciously  made, 
or  it  loses  its  distinction  and  becomes  a  boast.  A 
vow  must  be  voluntarily  kept,  must  be  openly  kept, 
must  be  consciously  kept,  or  it  loses  its  sacredness 
and  becomes  a  sin. 

"'Before  thou  makest  a  vow,  prepare  thyself;  and 
be  not  as  a  man  that  tempteth  the  Lord.' 

"I  do  not  profess  to  see  with  any  great  degree  of 
clearness,  but  perhaps  there  is  more  in  that  one  simple 
sentence  than  you  are  really  aware  of.  A  deeper  and 
more  vital  warning  than  you  are  really  conscious  of. 

309 


810  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

"It  is  a  well-known  and  well-worn  expression  that 
phrase,  *  to  be  tempted  into  sin,'  and  I  wonder  if  any 
of  you  have  ever  considered  that  it  has  a  parallel. 

**Yet  there  is  a  phrase,  a  sentence  which  is  never 
used,  which  never  even  finds  a  place  in  our  thoughts. 
It  is  not  a  paradox,  though  it  may  appear  to  be  so. 
It  is  not  said,  as  I  shall  say  it  now,  to  catch  by  its 
seeming  boldness  the  attention  of  your  minds.  It  is 
said  in  all  the  truest  motive  of  belief  that  it  is  one 
which  should  have  a  closer  and  more  intimate  con- 
sideration. 

"To  be  tempted  into  virtue." 

He  paused. 

"In  Lent  a  man  makes  a  vow  that  he  will  give  up 
drinking.  In  Lent  a  woman  makes  a  vow  that  she 
will  give  up  reading  novels.  These  are  but  common- 
place and  occur  over  and  over  again,  year  after  year, 
but  each  one  in  itself  is  a  temptation — a  temptation 
into  virtue. 

"  Not  if  it  is  kept ;  not  if  it  is  obeyed.  But  out  of 
the  thousands  who  make  those  vows  in  Lent  how 
many  are  there  who  keep  them?  How  many  are 
there  who  find  it  too  tedious,  too  irksome,  and,  in 
a  moment  of  weakness,  thinking  that  no  ceremony 
attended  the  making  of  their  promise,  that  the  vow 
is  not  according  to  the  laws  of  the  Church  obligatory, 
have  they  not  broken  that  which  they  professed  they 
would  keep? 

*' '  Before  thou  makest  a  vow,  prepare  thyself.' 

"These  vows  that  I  have  mentioned  are  but  the 
slightest  examples  that  I  could  think  of;  vows  that 
are   broken    with    a    thought    and    whose    breaking 


THE  SACRAMENT  311 

only  calls  forth  a  smile  and  a  jesting  remark  from  the 
friends  of  those  who  make  them. 

"  But  there  are  others,  deeper,  more  serious,  more 
intensely  vital;  the  breaking  of  which  can  only  spell 
destruction. 

"  It  seems  a  great,  a  noble  thing  to  make  a  vow. 
We  like  the  whole  world  to  know  that  we  have  done 
it;  that  we  are  subjects  of  a  voluntary  deprivation. 
Such  an  admission  as  that  we  have  taken  a  vow  calls 
forth  a  cry  of  admiration  from  those  around  us.  In 
our  own  minds,  we  are  little  martyrs  upon  little 
pedestals  of  virtue,  little  saints  in  little  shrines.  We 
expect  a  chorus  of  approbation  and  we  get  it. 
Invariably  we  get  it.  The  world  is  always  being 
taken  in  with  its  own  kind.  That  fact  stares  at  us 
every  day  from  our  business  and  our  profession,  from 
every  walk  of  life  into  which  we  are  called.  And  it 
is  our  knowledge  of  this  credulous  public,  our  cer- 
tainty of  this  invigorating  praise,  that  urges  us  to 
make  our  vows  without  preparation  or  forethought; 
without  the  consideration  of  what  the  deprivation  will 
really  mean,  and  that  leads  us  into  the  awful  tempta- 
tion of  tempting  the  Lord. 

"  Is  it  quite  a  human  possibility  to  know,  to  realize 
the  meaning  of  this — tempting  the  Lord?  Can  the 
human  mind  open  itself  to  the  great  width  neces- 
sary to  grasp  all  the  vital  consequences  attending 
such  a  deed.'*  I  almost  think  not.  I  almost  think 
not. 

"We  know  that  such  and  such  a  man  has  taken 
a  vow.  Such  a  vow,  for  example,  as  I  instanced  in 
the  beginning  of  my  sermon.     A  vow  in  Lent.     The 


312  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

nature  of  that  vow  happens  to  interfere  with  some- 
thing that  we  wish  to  accompHsh  in  his  company 
during  those  forty  days.  Do  we  stop  to  think  what 
we  are  doing  when  we  persuade  him  into  the  breaking 
of  that  vow?  Does  it  matter  to  us  if  he  breaks  it? 
We  fancy  that  it  does  not.  We  imagine  that  all  the 
weakness,  all  the  blame,  lies  on  his  side  in  the  break- 
ing. Truly  it  does  not  lessen  the  blame  to  him,  but 
— is  it  nothing  in  this  great  scheme  of  things  to 
tempt  a  man  to  tempt  the  Lord  ?  " 

Did  he  think  that  she  had  willingly  and  wittingly 
tempted  him?  Roona  wondered.  As  though  he  had 
heard  her  thought  his  next  words  answered  her 
question. 

"  There  are  temptations  as  subtle  as  the  night, 
there  are  temptations  as  open  as  the  day.  In  the 
glance  of  an  eye,  in  the  sound  of  a  voice,  in  things 
done  and  things  left  undone  can,  lurking,  lie  the  core 
of  temptation.  So  let  the  man  about  to  make  a  vow 
prepare  himself  lest  he  should  break  it;  for  it  is  a 
better  thing  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  to  live  in  sin  yet 
do  virtue  than,  in  the  eyes  of  all,  to  live  in  virtue  and 
do  sin. 

'  *'And  let  those  who  can  help  a  man  to  make  or 
break  his  vow,  let  them  not  forget  where  they  may 
remember.  There  is  no  human  strength  that  cometh 
to  a  man  who  makes  a  vow.  In  his  humanity  he  is 
just  as  frail  in  the  flesh  as  those  who  stand  by  and 
praise  him.  Therefore  let  those  who  can,  remember, 
lest  they  should  cast  before  him  those  temptations  of 
the  voice  and  of  the  eye;  of  the  things  that  may  be 
done  and  that  may  be  left  undone,  for  they  are  the 


THE   SACRAMENT  31S 

pitfalls  that  are  covered  over  with  the  twigs  of  per- 
suasion and  the  green  grass  of  simplicity. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  easiest,  the  most  simple  ajid  the 
most  applauded  things  in  this  world  to  make  a 
promise — and  it  is  often  the  hardest  thing  in  life  to 
keep. 

"  Therefore — *  Before  thou  takest  a  vow,  prepare 
thyself ;  and  be  not  as  one  who  tempteth  the  Lord.' 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost. — ^Amen." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

In  Roona,  as  it  applied  to  her,  this  sermon  awoke 
all  the  dormant  sentiments  of  her  religious  inclina- 
tions. To  a  greater  depth  even  than  her  love  it 
seemed  to  stir  her  mind  into  an  almost  fanatical 
spirit  of  renunciation.  From  that  day  forward  she 
tried  to  concentrate  the  wearied  energies  which 
remained  to  her  upon  the  barren  interests  of  her 
home. 

That  her  husband  had  married  her  from  youthful, 
inconsidered  motives  of  sensual  desire  had  long  since 
drawn  itself  into  proof.  He  had  needed  her  for  her 
body  and  called  it  love,  but  of  her  mind  he  absolutely 
knew  nothing.  And  as  the  one  interest  was  worn 
threadbare,  he  made  no  endeavour  to  cultivate  the 
other,  so  that  in  time — and  these  things  do  not  take 
long — they  arrived  at  that  state  of  wedded  life  when 
every  little  action  of  familiarity  is  filled  with  the 
sensation  of  nauseating  details ;  details  that  should 
fit  themselves  in  naturally  with  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  days  and  pass  unnoticed,  but  which  when  once 
observed  become  the  most  painful  torture  to  the  mind 
from  which  there  is  no  release. 

Yet  against  all  difficulties — and  she  had  no  child 
to  make  the  way  easier  with  interest — Roona  en- 
deavoured by  the  strength  which  Father  Michael's 
words  had  given  to  her  to  throw  a  brighter  light  of 
domestic  enthusiasm  onto  her  household  duties  and 
her  attendance  to  the  wants  of  her  husband.  In  doing 

314 


THE   SACRAMENT  315 

so  she  felt  that  she  was  following  Father  Michael's 
advice,  saving  him  from  the  greater  agony  of  his 
temptation,  doing  something — some  very  httle  thing 
she  felt  it  to  be — for  his  sake. 

For  some  weeks  after  his  sermon  she  strove  to  do 
her  utmost,  but  it  was  a  thankless  task. 

It  is  a  thankless  task  to  work  for  no  apparent  or 
possible  reward,  and  with  a  rush  of  circumstances  her 
good  intentions  gave  way.  All  the  thoughts  that  she 
had  been  holding  back  in  her  mind,  like  water  freed 
from  a  sluice  gate,  rushed  once  more  into  the  whirl- 
pool of  all-absorbing  existence  and  she  was  over- 
whelmed. 

A  letter  waited  for  her  on  the  breakfast  table  one 
morning.  It  was  from  some  friends  of  hers  who  had 
taken  a  house  in  Anesk  by  the  sea.  Anesk,  the 
favourite  resort  of  those  inhabitants  of  Lee  who 
wished  to  be  in  the  fashion  and  could  not  afford  to 
pay  a  large  price  for  its  reputation. 

She  read  it,  then  laid  it  beside  her  plate  and  poured 
out  the  tea  passing  a  cup  to  her  husband. 

"  The  Northcotes  have  asked  me  to  go  down  to 
Anesk  for  a  few  days,"  she  said  as  he  lowered  his 
newspaper. 

He  took  his  cup  silently  and  looked  across  the 
table  at  her. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  went  some  day  this  week?" 
she  added. 

He  stirred  his  tea  methodically  and  raised  his  news- 
paper again. 

"There's  nothing  to  prevent  you,"  he  said  inertly 
from  behind  the  sheet  of  print. 


816  THE   APPLE   OF  EDEN 

She  looked  in  his  direction  as  though  she  expected 
to  see  in  the  printed  characters  that  faced  her  what 
he  implied. 

"Why  nothing  to  prevent  me?  How  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"Well,  Mary  can  easily  look  after  my  meals." 
Mary  was  the  servant.  "  That's  about  all  there  is  to 
do  in  this  house." 

"  What  else  would  you  expect  there  to  be  done  that  I 
don't  do.?" 

His  paper  rustled  and  he  coughed. 

**You  might  have  to  look  after  a  child,  if  we  had 
one." 

Her  cheeks  burnt  red,  and  for  a  moment  the  tears 
filled  her  eyes  with  the  pain  of  wounded  suscepti- 
bihties.  Mechanically  she  put  a  piece  of  bread  into 
her  mouth.  It  seemed  like  leather,  rough  and  taste- 
less. But  she  said  nothing,  and  at  last  he  felt  im- 
pelled to  defend  his  statement  against  the  accusation 
of  her  silence. 

*'  That  is  the  case,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said  coldly. 

It  is  characteristic  of  some  men  that  they  will  throw 
the  blame  of  all  Nature's  failings  on  to  individuals. 

StiU  she  maintained  her  silence. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  "  he  asked.  He  raised  his 
head  over  the  top  of  his  paper. 

She  looked  for  one  second  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  no  answer  to  make,"  she  replied.  She  said 
it  quite  quietly. 

"I  suppose  not.  Of  course  I'm  not  blaming  you. 
You  can't  help  it." 

Had  he  been  content  with  her  reply ;  had  he  satisfied 


Tff£  SACRAMENT  317 

himself  with  his  implications  of  blame,  for  so  she 
had  accepted  them  and  such  in  reality  they  were, 
then  it  might  all  have  passed  into  the  weariness  of  her 
days.  Blame  certainly  would  have  been  easier  to 
bear,  because  in  her  heart  she  would  have  known  that 
it  was  unjust.  It  is  not  really  so  hard  to  be  a  martyr 
with  enthusiasm  as  it  is  to  be  a  culprit  with  imagina- 
tion. But  when  he  taunted  her  with  the  inability  of 
her  nature,  then  the  lash  fell  too  strongly,  cut  too 
deeply.  In  all  the  texture  of  her  mind  Roona  was  a 
woman,  and  the  curse  of  Eve  had  not  been  omitted  in 
her  human  fabric.  There  were  many  days  since  its 
realization  had  come  that  she  had  deplored  this  state 
of  things.  But  to  be  told  pityingly,  to  be  reminded 
with  callous  commiseration  that  she  could  not  help  it 
— that  it  was  a  lacking,  a  blemish  in  her  nature — that 
was  beyond  her  endurance. 

She  rose  quickly  from  the  table. 

*'  Where  are  you  going.? "  he  asked  at  once. 

He  was  so  constituted  that  he  could  never  let  a 
fight  of  words  be  ended  in  its  beginning  by  discreet 
silence. 

*'  Up-stairs  to  my  room,"  she  replied. 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous.  I  told  you  I  wasn't  blaming 
you.     Finish  your  breakfast." 

He  firmly  believed  he  took  this  disappointment  of 
his  home  life  unselfishly  and  well.  There  were  not 
many  men,  he  told  himself,  who  woul4  accept  the 
conditions  without  a  murmur,  as  he  was  doing. 

It  seemed  as  though  she  had  not  heard  him,  for  she 
crossed  the  room,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  handle  of 
the  door. 


318  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

"For  the  Lord's  sake  don't  be  so  abjectly  foolish, 
Roona,"  he  said  irritably.  "It's  not  my  short- 
coming— it's  yours.  If  any  one's  going  to  make  a 
fuss,  surely  it  ought  to  be  me  ?  " 

She  opened  the  door  and  then  turned  round. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  make  a  fuss,"  she  said  simply,  **  I 
don't  think  the  subject  you've  chosen  calls  for  one. 
I'd  rather  not  discuss  it."  She  closed  the  door  after 
her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  called  out.  A  closed 
door  in  the  middle  of  such  a  conversation  annoyed 
him  intensely. 

She  opened  it  again,  just  a  little  way. 

"  I'm  going  up-stairs  to  put  on  my  things." 

*'  Where  are  you  going,  then  ?  " 

"To  Anesk." 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

Anesk  was  merely  an  hour's  journey  away,  so  that 
Roona's  decision  was  not  one  of  very  vital  import. 
She  packed  up  the  few  things  that  she  would  require 
for  a  short  visit,  and  avoiding  any  further  conversa- 
tion with  her  husband  she  left  by  an  early  train, 
arriving  at  her  destination  in  time  for  lunch.  It  was 
the  first  time  they  had  been  away  from  each  other 
since  their  marriage,  and  as  she  lay  down  alone  that 
night  to  sleep,  freed  from  the  mockery  of  his  presence, 
she  sighed  with  a  deeper  spirit  of  relief  than  she  had 
known  for  a  long  time. 

The  past  year  or  so  had  not  failed  to  bring  a  great 
change  in  her  nature  as  it  had  also  done  in  her  life. 
Her  brighter  outlook  on  things  had  become  over- 
shadowed with  the  gloominess  of  her  surroundings. 
Existence  seemed  almost  sordid  to  her,  and  that 
optimistic  laugh  with  which  she  had  won  Father 
Michael's  interest  had  lost  its  cheerful  note,  in  fact 
was  seldom  if  ever  heard. 

Once,  some  time  after  her  marriage,  her  mother  had 
asked  her  whether  she  was  happy. 

Roona  looked  at  her  almost  in  surprise.  She  could 
not  believe  that  her  mother  of  all  people,  the  one 
person  who  had  seen  most  of  her  life,  should  be  so 
blind  to  a  fact  that  she  thought  must  be  most  obvious. 

"You  married  me,  mother,"  she  said  quietly,  with 
no  conscious  effort  of  irony,  *'  you  ought  to  know  as 
well  as  I  do." 

319 


THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you're  not  ?  " 

"Well,"  Roona  raised  her  eyebrows.  "Did  you 
marry  me  for  my  happiness  or  your  convenience?  " 

Mrs.  Lawless  professed  that  she  never  had  under- 
stood Roona,  and  did  not  refer  to  the  subject  again. 

It  could  not  be  expected  that  a  change  of  her  sur- 
roundings which  lasted  for  only  a  few  days  would 
make  any  material  alteration  in  the  unhappy  state  of 
her  mind,  and  seeing  that  the  Northcote  family  was 
mainly  composed  of  girls  varying  from  the  age  of 
fifteen  to  twenty,  who  found  no  other  pleasure  in  life 
than  bathing  upon  an  overcrowded  strand  in  the  full 
view  of  an  overcrowded  promenade,  Roona  found  that 
she  was  left  not  a  little  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Northcote  was  all  day  concerned  with  the 
duties  of  her  abundant  household.  She  was  a  woman 
who  really  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  the  endless 
nature  of  her  maternal  affairs,  and  only  when  Mr. 
Northcote  returned  from  Lee  did  she  make  an  ap- 
pearance in  the  dining-room  to  play  nap  for  half- 
penny points. 

It  was  really  only  to  escape  the  attentions  of  her 
husband  that  Roona  had  visited  these  acquaintances 
at  all,  and  accordingly  when  one  of  the  girls  offered 
her  the  use  of  her  bicycle,  she  was  only  too  glad  to  ac- 
cept the  opportunity  of  escaping  from  them  as  well. 

With  the  last  year  had  come  to  Roona  a  serious 
outlook  upon  life.  She  felt  sure  that  her  existence 
was  very  similar  to  many  another  woman's  experi- 
ences, but  yet  it  was  hers,  and  in  that  respect  nothing 
in  life  could  be  quite  like  it.  She  was  disappointed, 
she  knew  and  realized  that,  yet  it  never  seemed  to  her 


THE   SACRAMENT  321 

that  that  disappointment  could  continue  until  the  end 
of  time. 

The  opportunity  of  riding  away  out  into  the 
country,  utterly  alone,  held  out  an  interest  the  extent 
of  which  she  was  even  surprised  at  herself.  One  day 
she  rode  to  Fallow,  a  little  country  town  some  miles 
away  from  Anesk,  returning  in  the  evening  with  a 
-keener  inclination  to  join  in  the  amusements  of  the 
younger  girls. 

The  following  day  they  advised  her  to  ride  out  to 
see  the  ruins  in  Rathmore,  directing  her  as  well  as 
they  could,  though  the  way  was  practically  unmis- 
takable. 

The  journey  took  her  about  an  hour,  for  although 
it  was  only  about  nine  miles  distant,  her  skill  as  a 
bicyclist  was  not  anything  worth  speaking  about. 
She  had  no  machine  of  her  own. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  week,  and  many  a  country 
cart  with  its  two  long  handles  behind,  utilized  by  the 
driver  to  lift  the  vehicle  out  of  impassable  places, 
passed  her  by  with  its  household  purchases  on  the 
way  to  Anesk. 

The  further  she  got  out  into  the  country  the  more 
rutted  became  the  roads,  and  the  more  the  children 
stared  whenever  she  passed  a  lonely  cottage.  But  the 
day  was  bright,  the  sky  nearly  cloudless,  and  the 
loneliness  of  the  way  had  no  power  to  depress  her. 
She  felt  indeed  happier  when  by  herself. 

At  last  the  old  round  tower  of  Rathmore  came  in 
sight,  towards  which,  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  it,  she 
was  told  to  steer  her  course.  Though  she  had  lived 
in  Ireland  all  her  life  this  was  the  first  of  those 


S22  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

archaeological  remains  that  she  had  seen,  and  the 
prospect  of  inspecting  it  added  speed  to  her  wheels. 

Following  the  wires  by  which  Rathmore  is  connected 
with  Anesk  for  purposes  of  occasional  telegraphy,  she 
soon  passed  under  the  thick  growth  of  trees  that  arch 
the  first  entrance  into  the  village.  It  would  have 
seemed  strange  indeed  to  her  had  she  been  told  that 
one  so  near  to  her  thoughts,  as  Father  Michael  was 
even  at  that  moment,  had  passed  under  there  straight 
from  the  incident  that  still  created  the  harassment  of 
her  mind. 

When  she  had  had  lunch  at  a  little  cafe  which  from 
the  cliff  overlooked  the  broad  stretch  of  the  bay,  she 
left  her  bicycle  in  charge  of  the  caretaker,  and  taking 
her  advice  prepared  to  inspect  the  ruins  of  the  holy 
chapel  and  well,  which  hang  on  the  very  brow  of  the 
cliff  some  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Just  as  she 
mounted  the  hill  that  led  up  from  the  little  eating- 
house  a  priest  came  out  of  a  cottage  further  down 
towards  the  village.  His  eyes  happened  to  catch 
sight  of  her  receding  figure  in  the  distance.  For 
a  moment  he  stopped  as  though  something  seemed  to 
strike  his  memory,  then  turning  round  on  a  sudden 
decision  he  went  on  again  to  another  cottage  a  few 
doors  away. 

Before  the  old  stone  well,  with  its  three  figures — 
Christ  crucified  and  the  two  thieves  at  either  side 
— eaten  by  the  salt  wind  and  the  relentless  rain  of 
many  hundreds  of  years  until  it  looked  Hke  a  rotten 
bone,  a  little  child  was  kneeling,  saying  her  prayers, 

Roona  stopped  for  a  moment  unnoticed  and  watched 
her. 


THE   SACRAMENT 

In  the  great  stillness  of  the  place  that  brought 
up  to  mind  dim  and  misty  visions  of  the  age  when 
strange-clothed  priests  held  their  services  there  the 
little  girl  in  her  rough,  serge  skirt  and  bare  legs  was 
perfectly  in  keeping.  Roona  noticed  that  like  her 
own  the  child's  hair  was  red.  But  it  was  raw  and 
unkempt,  falling  in  stray  locks  on  to  her  shoulders. 

It  is  quite  a  common  sight  to  see  the  poor  in 
Ireland  kneeling  at  their  prayers  outside  the  doors 
of  some  crowded  chapel,  yet  here  in  the  wild  lone- 
liness of  the  place  Roona  thought  it  strange — 
almost  inspiring.  She  watched  with  an  increasing 
interest  the  deep  red  lips  as  they  moved  in  the  silent 
framing  of  their  words.  Very  simple  words  she 
imagined  they  must  be,  expressing  very  simple 
thoughts. 

At  last,  just  as  Roona  came  nearer,  she  crossed 
herself,  having  concluded  her  devotions,  and  rose 
to  her  feet.  Roona  was  standing  in  her  way  as 
she  turned  with  the  intention  of  going  back  to  the 
village.  The  little  girl  looked  up  wistfully  into  her 
face  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  Roona's  interest 
had  been  too  deeply  roused  to  let  her  go  without 
speaking  to  her. 

"Is  this  the  holy  well  here?"  she  asked.  It  was 
the  first  question  that  rose  to  her  mind  as  one  possible 
to  open  conversation. 

The  child  nodded  her  head  automatically. 

"Is  this  a  feast  day  here.''" 

She  shook  her  head  in  the  same  mechanical  way. 

"Why  were  you  saying  your  prayers  then?" 

Again  she  nodded  her  head. 


SU  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

"  But  why  were  you  saying  them  ?  "  She  was  almost 
beginning  to  despair  of  drawing  anything  from  her. 

"I'm  going  to  confession." 

Roona  looked  down  into  the  wistful  little  face  and 
smiled,  wondering  what  weight  of  misdoing  could  find 
a  resting-place  in  so  small  a  mind. 

"How  old  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"Ten." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"Annie  Foley." 

"  Why  do  you  come  up  here  and  pray  before  going 
to  confession  ?  " 

"  The  prayst  told  me  to." 

"Have  you  been  very  naughty  then?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Have  you?" 

"I  was  afther  taking  fairther's  cows  grazing*  on 
Mr.  Power's  field." 

"Was  that  very  wrong?" 

"  'Twas  like  I'd  done  it  before." 

Roona  tried  to  look  down  into  her  eyes,  but  they 
were  lowered  and  she  could  not  see  them. 

It  seemed  such  a  small  insignificant  sin  compared 
with  that  which  was  always  present  in  her  own  mind, 
but,  though  hers  was  the  greater,  she  would  not  will- 
ingly have  parted  with  it  in  exchange.  Yet  she  had 
never  confessed  it.  In  a  way  she  fancied  that  it 
would  appear  too  trivial,  too  paltry;  almost  impos- 
sible of  being  understood  when  put  into  words — this 
abstract  love  of  a  priest  and  scarcely  concrete  loath- 
ing of  her  own  husband.  It  was  because  she  could 
not   tell   or   express   all   the   thoughts    that   passed 


THE   SACRAMENT  886 

through  her  mind  that  she  knew  it  would  appear 
insignificant  to  her  confessor.  Yet  in  her  own  heart, 
knowing  only  too  well  all  the  thoughts  that  harassed 
her  mind  every  day  of  her  life,  she  realized  how 
infinitely  greater  her  sin  must  seem  in  the  eyes  of  God 
than  the  ill-doing  of  this  little  child.  But  she  was 
not  going  to  confession.  She  felt  it  quite  probable, 
damning  though  it  would  have  been  to  her  own  soul, 
that  the  knowledge  of  it  would  cling  to  her  uncon- 
fesscd  for  the  remainder  of  her  life.  She  shuddered 
mentally  at  the  thought  of  that.  To  one  of  her 
religion  it  was  an  awful  and  a  hopeless  prospect. 
And  then  the  thought  of  going  to  confession  after  all 
suddenly  made  itself  appealing  to  her.  She  would 
tell  it  any  way,  as  best  she  could,  and  leave  the 
motive  of  her  going  to  be  judged  by  God. 

"  The  priest  is  hearing  confession  to-day,  of 
course  ?  "  she  asked. 

Annie  Foley  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"At  what  time.?" 

"From  five  tiU  eight." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Roona,  and  turning  away  the 
little  girl  wandered  slowly  back  through  a  stUe  and 
along  a  path  that  led  to  the  village. 


BOOK  VI 
THE  INEVITABLE 


" — and  does  not  life  go  down  with  a  better  grac^ 
foaming  in  full  body  over  a  precipice,  than  miserably 
straggling  to  an  end  in  sandy  deltas?" — "Aes 
Triplex,"  R.  L.  Stevensok. 

"A  man  protesting  against  error  is  on  the  way 
towards  uniting  himself  with  all  men  that  believe 
in  truth." — "  The  Hero  as  a  Priest,"  Thomas  Caeltub. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  midst  of  September  ap- 
proaching the  hour  of  eight.  The  last  rays  of  the 
sun,  as  in  one  vast  hoard  of  gold,  had  cast  their 
last  shades  of  colour  into  the  bay  and  Rathmore  lay 
in  a  dust  of  cumbrous  twilight. 

Within  the  chapel  the  few  lighted  candles  that 
burnt  before  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  seemed  wavering 
in  the  assertion  of  their  superior  light.  The  red 
sanctuary  lamp  burnt  wamingly  before  the  High 
Altar,  and  one  by  one  the  shadows  deepened  in 
tone  and  became  more  and  more  intangible  in  their 
uncertain  texture  with  the  departing  light. 

Down  the  narrow  side  aisles  the  dim  half  lights 
found  scarcely  any  strength  at  all,  and  Father 
Michael's  confessional  close  up  to  the  wall  stood  in 
a  deep  and  heavy  shadow  of  its  own. 

Except  for  one  figure,  a  woman,  who  knelt  near 
the  confessional,  head  bowed  in  her  hands  and  body 
motionless,  the  church  might  have  seemed  to  be 
empty.  She  was  anticipating  the  conclusion  of  a 
confession  which  by  right  of  waiting  had  taken 
precedence  of  hers. 

At  last  the  sibilant  whisperings  ceased,  and  after  a 
moment's  pause  a  man  emerged  from  the  little  house 
of  absolution.  She  lost  no  time  in  taking  his  place, 
knowing  that  the  priest  within  must  by  that  time 
be  wearied  with  his  duty. 

She  was  by  no  means  wide  of  the  mark  in  her 


THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

surmise.  Father  Michael  indeed  was  almost  tired 
out  with  the  monotony  of  his  position.  The  physi- 
cal uneasiness  of  the  body  is  not  bound  to  depart 
from  a  man  in  the  spiritual  atmosphere  of  the  con- 
fessional. Hearing  another  penitent  enter  by  his 
side  he  looked  out  between  the  curtains.  He  or  she, 
whichever  it  was,  was  the  last.  He  leant  back  in  his 
seat,  not  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  but  with  that  sensation 
of  human  satisfaction  which  a  man  must  feel  when 
his  work  is  almost  done. 

Drawing  his  stole  more  securely  round  his  shoulders 
he  looked  patiently  up  to  the  roof  waiting  for  the 
suppliant  to  begin. 

*'  Bless  me.  Father,  for  I  have  sinned." 

The  voice  was  low,  indistinct,  but  to  a  man  who  has 
once  loved  one  woman  it  matters  not  how  low  or  in- 
distinct the  voice  may  be,  he  knows  it  as  the  wild  bird 
knows  the  note  of  its  mate,  as  the  mother  knows  the 
indistinguishable  cry  of  her  child. 

Uncontrollably  his  body  leant  forward  and  the 
lines  about  his  mouth  hardened  with  the  contraction 
of  his  muscles. 

It  was  Roona's  voice. 

Had  he  not  been  certain,  the  thought  that  he  had 
seen  her  that  afternoon  as  he  came  out  of  a  cottage 
on  the  cliff  would  have  convinced  him.  He  was 
beginning  to  have  faith  in  coincidence.  Though  it 
was  against  the  strictest  tenets  of  his  Church  the 
dogged  persistence  of  fate  had  almost  fascinated  him 
into  belief. 

It  was  Roona's  voice!  She  had  found  him  out! 
Intentionally,  he  could  not  beheve  it  to  be.     But  still 


THE  INEVITABLE  8S1 

she  was  beside  him,  alone  in  the  deepening  shadows 
of  the  chapel.  Alone — alone — he  said  the  word  over 
and  again  to  himself  in  the  silent  tumult  of  his 
mind.  What  should  he  do.?  The  furious  beating  of 
his  heart  was  a  goad  pressing  him  forward ;  the  cold 
fear  of  consequences  was  a  cord  that  drew  him  back- 
wards. As  yet  his  mind  was  incapable  of  both  sensa- 
tions, and  when  a  man  is  in  that  condition  he  does 
nothing.  It  is  only  when  fear  or  passion  predom- 
inates that  he  acts. 

And  so,  convinced  of  her  identity,  his  hands  clenched 
tight,  and  with  the  light  of  a  conscious  fear  in  his 
eyes  he  listened  to  her  "  Confiteor." 

"  I  confess  to  Almighty  God,  to  Blessed  Mary,  ever 
Virgin,  to  Blessed  Michael  the  Archangel,  Blessed 
John  the  Baptist,  the  Holy  Apostles  Peter  and  Paul, 
to  all  the  saints  and  to  you.  Father,  that  I  have 
sinned  exceedingly  in  thought,  word,  and  deed, 
through  my  fault — through  my  fault — through  my 
most  grievous  fault." 

He  did  not  try  to  hear  the  words  he  knew  so  well, 
but  from  the  dizzy  whirlpool  of  his  thoughts  he 
found  himself  wondering  what  her  confession  would 
be.  The  spirit  of  self -protection  urged  him  to  think 
that  he  could  sufficiently  conceal  his  voice  so  that  she 
would  not  realize  his  identity.  That  at  least  was  his 
first  instinct.  Ever  since  he  had  seen  her  in  St. 
Peter  and  Paul's  Church  a  dread  that  she  would 
break  her  way  again  into  his  life  had  dogged  all  his 
thoughts.  In  the  year  that  had  passed  he  had  not 
in  the  least  forgotten  her.  Only  the  chain  of  routine 
had  found  the  old  groove  in  his  existence  and  fitted 


THE  APPLE   OF   EDEN 

itself  in ;  not  with  its  usual  ease  but  with  a  sufficient 
absence  of  friction  to  make  it  seem  still  possible  for 
life  to  run  on  smoothly.  And  now,  was  the  whole 
fight  to  begin  over  again?  If  it  were  to  be  so  he 
did  not  dare  to  contemplate  the  result.  In  the 
knowledge  of  his  love  for  her  truly  he  felt  a  greater 
and  a  deeper  strength  than  when  first  his  whole 
desire  had  been  for  himself,  and  in  the  abstract  that 
strength  yeould  have  remained,  but  it  needed  their 
actual  contact  to  put  it  really  to  the  test.  Yet,  dis- 
trustful of  his  strength  when  once  he  had  fallen,  that 
actual  contact  was  what  he  most  wished  to  avoid. 
But  it  was  a  wish  that  was  forced,  that  was  strained. 
Ever  since  those  days  in  Duresne  when  the  senses  of 
his  manhood  had  been  awakened  they  had  not  re- 
turned again  to  sleep.  Always  ready,  always  watch- 
ful for  the  susceptibility  of  his  mind,  they  had  only 
been  waiting  for  such  a  moment  as  this  to  spring 
upon  him  from  the  ambush  of  his  uneventful  exist- 
ence. But  this  time  in  their  attack  they  found  they 
had  a  stronger  man  to  deal  with — a  man  who  knew 
the  way  of  sin  because  he  had  himself  sinned — a  man 
aware  of  the  wiles  of  temptation  because  he  had 
fallen — a  man  capable  of  choosing  between  right  and 
wrong  because  he  knew  them  both. 

He  knew  that  if  he  could  conceal  his  voice  her  con- 
fession would  pass  by  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
events.  She  would  go  away  in  ignorance  of  the  man 
to  whom  her  confession  had  been  made,  and,  having 
conquered  himself,  the  Almighty  God  would  give  him 
the  reward  for  the  agony  and  the  determination  of 
his  mind. 


THE  INEVITABLE  333 

It  was  all  a  one-sided  affair.  All  the  love  and  all 
the  craving  belonged  to  him.  She?  Probably  she 
had  forgotten.  Though  in  that  moment  he  remem- 
bered how  she  had  come  back  to  the  very  same  seat 
to  hear  him  preach  in  Lee.  That  perhaps  was  curi- 
osity or  a  passing  interest.  Beyond  that,  he  knew 
that  he  was  throwing  away  the  whole  desires  of  his 
mind  and  body  into  an  unresponsive  nature.  It  was 
a  wasted  passion,  from  which  he  would  gain  nothing 
but  misery  in  this  world  and  damnation  in  the  next ; 
and,  clinging  to  this  last  thought  to  give  him 
strength,  he  leant  back  again  in  his  seat,  lowering 
the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"  When  did  you  make  your  last  confession  ?  " 

"A  month  ago.  Father." 

By  the  ready  answer  of  her  voice  he  knew  that  as 
yet  he  was  undiscovered. 

"  Have  you  made  your  penance?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Then  tell  me  your  sins,  child.     I  am  waiting." 

The  short  silence  that  followed  filled  itself  with 
questions  for  him.  Could  she  have  fallen  again  with 
that  young  man?  God  forbid,  he  prayed.  The 
prayer  was  quite  human,  in  that  he  said  it  for  him- 
self. Yet  a  suspicion  that  it  might  be  so  set  the  fire 
of  jealousy  alight  in  him.  Why  was  the  whole  world 
given  to  some  to  take  casually,  he  wondered,  when 
others  would  sell  their  souls  for  its  possession.  Could 
he  bear  the  temptation  to  make  her  his  in  spite  of  all, 
if  that  should  prove  the  case?  One  sin  more  in 
this  seeming  network  of  vice,  what  difference  could 
it  make?     He  clenched  his  teeth.     In  another  mo- 


THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

ment  he  saw  that  his  thoughts  would  become  brutal 
as  they  had  been  before  and  that  all  power  of  resist- 
ance would  be  taken  from  him.  He  altered  his  posi- 
tion nervously. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  repeated  with  forced  quietness. 

And  then  she  began. 

"I  am  married,  Father." 

He  sat  upright. 

He  was  not  a  priest !  He  knew  that  he  was  not  a 
priest;  only  a  man  with  the  thoughts  of  a  man,  the 
desires  of  a  man,  the  cruel  human  disappointments 
of  a  man. 

She  was  married!  God!  How  much  irony  there 
was  in  the  world!  Yet  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best. 
That  put  her  beyond  his  reach.  He  supposed  it  was 
the  best  that  could  happen  to  him.  But  she  was 
married.  Some  other  man  had  her  caresses.  Some 
other  man  had  claimed  her,  body  and  soul ;  whilst  he 
— that  was  the  way  some  things  in  life  were  bound 
to  end.  He  tried  to  tell  himself  that  he  ought  to  be 
glad,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  only  befooling  him- 
self. 

"I'm  married,"  she  said  again  to  help  her  on  with 
her  confession,  "  and  I  do  not  love  my  husband." 

He  drew  in  a  quick  breath. 

"  Do  not  love  him .'' "  he  repeated. 

"It  is  not  all  of  my  sin  that  I  loathe  him,"  she 
added  passionately.  **  Before  we  were  married  I 
told  him  that  I  could  not  care  for  him ;  but  my  mother 
was  on  his  side,  and  then " 

"Yes — and  then.?"  He  marvelled  at  the  quietness 
of  his  voice. 


THE  INEVITABLE  335 

"I — I  had  given  him  every  right  to  marry  me 
before,  some  months  before,  when  we  were  engaged. 
He  reminded  me  of  that.  Oh,  I  suppose  he  was 
quite  right.  He  told  me  it  would  be  a  greater  sin  if 
I  did  not  marry  him.  I  went  to  confession  about  it, 
and  that  was  what  the  priest  told  me  too.  It's  so 
hard  to  know.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  right; 
but  I  did  not  love  him,  and  now — it's  worse  than  not 
loving.  I  have  no  child,  and  the  other  day  he 
taunted  me  with  it.  I  hate  him  now — how  can  I 
help  it.?  I  am  sorry,  but  could  I  love  him  after 
this — could  I,  Father?" 

He  bent  his  fingers  together  in  a  nervous  grip  and 
tried  to  steady  himself.  How  could  he  ask  questions 
concerning  herself  when  their  answers  would  so 
vitally  concern  him  as  well?  In  the  sacredness  of 
the  place  he  knew  that  he  dared  not,  and  so  he  kept 
silence. 

"  One  can't  make  love  to  the  order  of  right  or 
wrong,"  she  remarked  parenthetically,  and  he  shud- 
dered at  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  "  But  that  is 
not  all.  Father,"  she  continued,  "  that  seems  to  be  no 
sin  at  all  compared  with  what  I  have  to  tell." 

He  listened  eagerly,  trembling  for  her  next  words, 
fearful  lest  she  should  have  given  herself  to  another 
man  yet  fascinated  with  the  confiding  simplicity  of 
her  story. 

"I  love  some  one  else,"  she  said  at  last  after  the 
pause  in  which  she  had  sought  for  courage  to  make 
her  statement.  "  There  is  another  man  whom  I  do 
love  with  all  my  heart." 

He  groaned.     How  well,   how   accurately  he  had 


886  THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

guessed  it.  She  was  further  from  him  than  ever. 
It  was  no  good  telling  himself  that  it  was  for  the 
best.  He  would  not  listen  to  it.  She  was  further 
from  him  than  ever.  She  had  married  one  man  and 
loved  another.     He — ^he  was  utterly  forgotten. 

"I  can  hear  you  sigh,  Father,"  she  said  remorse- 
fully ;  "  but  even  that  is  not  all.  The  man  I  love  is 
a  priest." 

It  seemed  as  though  life  with  him  in  that  moment 
had  ceased.  He  could  not  feel  the  beating  of  his 
heart,  he  could  not  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  quick 
breathing.  Everything  seemed  still — ^terribly, 
awfully  still.  He  passed  his  hand  across  and  around 
his  face,  and  even  his  sense  of  touch  was  numbed. 
It  was  as  though  some  great  force  was  collecting 
itself  in  the  centre  of  his  mind,  which  in  one  moment 
would  burst  out  into  terrific  action — that  then  his 
heart  would  beat,  only  faster  than  it  had  ever  beaten 
before — that  then  sounds  would  come  to  his  ears, 
but  with  a  deafening  rush  of  noise  which  he  would 
be  unable  to  bear.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  it  all,  and  in  that  moment  of  waiting  he 
spoke.  His  voice  was  thick  and  almost  unrecog- 
nizable, but  she  heard  him. 

"A  priest?"  he  echoed.  "How  did  you  come  to 
love  a  priest  ?  " 

"It  was  away.  Father,  in  France.  Oh,  it  was  not 
his  fault — it  was  not  his  fault.  He  went  away  as 
soon  as  he  knew." 

"But  what  did  he  do  to  make  you  love  him?  He 
must  have  done  something?"  His  words  came 
quickly,  impetuously  with  the  joy  of  knowing  that 


THE  INEVITABLE 

she  cared  for  him.  He  wanted  to  know  why,  why  he 
had  won  her.  He  longed  to  know;  would  give  his 
whole  soul  to  know. 

"  Did — did  you  fall  with  him  ?  "  he  added. 

"  No,"  she  said  quickly  in  Father  Michael's  defence. 
She  felt  that  she  would  not  have  been  ashamed  to 
admit  it  of  herself. 

"  Then  what  did  he  do.?     What  did  he  do?  " 

"  He  kissed  me." 

"That  was  all.?" 

"All.     Yes." 

"  And  you  learnt  to  love  him  from  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Father,  I  shall  always  love  him." 

Father  Michael  pulled  the  curtains  and  looked  into 
the  church.  All  his  actions  were  perfect  in  their 
execution,  but  he  could  not  reasonably  have  said 
what  he  was  doing.  An  impulse  of  passion  was  the 
master  of  him. 

The  church  was  empty.  Not  a  soul  was  likely  to 
be  there.  They  were  alone.  He  stepped  out  into 
the  aisle. 

"  Roona,"  he  whispered  in  the  darkness.  "  Roona  I 
it's  I!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

He  heard  the  little  gasp  of  her  breath  in  the  deep 
silence  of  the  church.  There  was  a  pause.  Then  he 
heard  her  rising  to  her  feet,  the  curtain  was  drawn, 
and  her  pale  face,  grey  in  the  intensity  of  the  gloom, 
stood  out  against  the  black  background.  For  a 
moment  both  of  them  were  silent. 

"Roona,"  he  said  at  last,  without  moving,  *'I 
wouldn't  have  waited  if  I'd  known  it  was  going  to  be 
that.  I'd  hoped  you'd  have  gone  away  without  know- 
ing, and  then  it  would  have  been  all  over.  I  tried 
for  it  to  be  hke  that."  He  spoke  hke  a  child,  simply 
and  straight-forwardly.  There  seemed  no  fighting 
left  to  be  done.  Everything  was  in  the  light.  Con- 
cealment could  no  longer  avail  anything. 

*'  You  would  have  let  me  go  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  I'd  have  tried,"  he  moaned. 

"Then  I  must  go  now."  She  said  it  meekly,  but 
she  meant  it  well. 

*' Presently,"  he  said,  "presently.  There's  some- 
thing to  be  said  first.  Come  into  the  sacristy.  There 
will  be  no  one  there.  We  shall  be  quite  alone.  Come 
into  the  sacristy." 

She  tried  to  hesitate,  but  his  decision  seemed  firm, 
too  firm  for  her  to  disobey,  and  she  followed  him. 

When  she  had  passed  by  him  into  the  little,  bare 
room,  with  its  cheap,  deal  cupboards  which  contained 
the  vestments,  he  closed  the  door  that  led  into  the 

S38 


THE  INEVITABLE 

chapel.  That  which  led  from  the  sacristy  into  the 
street  had  already  been  locked  by  the  chapel-woman 
when  she  went  to  her  tea. 

Almost  indifferently  Roona  wondered  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  She  was  his,  she  felt  that  she  was  his, 
and  he  might  do  what  he  willed  with  her.  She  knew 
she  could  deny  him  nothing.  Standing  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  she  waited  while  he  closed  the 
door,  making  no  offer  to  move  or  speak  when  he 
came  back  to  her  side. 

For  a  few  moments  he  stood  before  her,  looking 
down  into  her  face.  In  that  space  of  time  during 
which  they  had  walked  silently  up  the  chapel  to  the 
sacristy,  his  thoughts  had  all  collected  themselves 
into  one  concrete  realization. 

She  loved  him,  and  in  the  gift  of  that  knowledge 
he  knew  that  he  loved  her  also.  Not  as  he  had 
loved;  desiring,  craving,  coveting,  but  with  that 
great  and  absorbing  sentiment  which  is  the  only 
binding  sacrament  of  matrimony ;  that  love  which  in 
some  Utopian  scheme  of  things  is  the  perfect  affec- 
tion of  wife  for  husband  and  husband  for  wife. 
Instead  of  exciting  the  passion  of  his  senses,  it 
calmed  them ;  instead  of  urging  him  to  the  brutality 
of  his  nature  it  held  him  back.  He  knew  that  she  was 
passive  in  his  hands,  but  the  light  of  a  far  greater 
desire  than  sensual  satisfaction  had  fallen  upon  him. 
In  that  moment  he  honoured  and  respected  her.  In 
that  moment  he  could  not  have  found  it  in  his  nature 
to  kill  her  finer  feelings  with  shame,  though  in  her 
very  attitude  of  submission  as  she  stood  there  before 
him  he  knew  that  she  was  his.     But  such  action  as 


340  THE  APPLE   OF  EDEN 

this,  though  it  was  conscious  to  his  mind,  did  not 
enter  into  the  region  of  his  thoughts,  or  the  possibil- 
ity of  his  consideration. 

Love  is  a  very  strange  and  a  very  wonderful  thing. 
It  has  been  ridiculed  by  theorists,  analyzed  by  sci- 
entists into  its  component  parts.  Pathologists  have 
called  it  a  disease,  neurologists  have  called  it  hyste- 
ria, yet  for  all  its  irrationalism  it  has  been  the 
foundation  of  the  most  inspired  deeds  and  the  great- 
est virtues  that  the  world  has  ever  known. 

There  is  no  written  or  unwritten  law,  no  social 
custom  on  earth,  and  no  force  of  conscience  in  the 
human  mind  that  can  honestly  allay  the  carnal  de- 
sires of  a  man  for  a  woman  who  stands  before  him 
a  willing  slave  to  the  knowledge  of  his  strength. 
When  all  a  man's  blood  is  burning  with  the  passion- 
ate demands  of  his  nature  there  is  no  vow  that  will 
hold  him  back  from  the  grasping  of  his  release;  for 
that  which  has  been  made  to  be,  must  be,  and  the 
Creator  of  all  things  will  not  stay  the  traffic  of  His 
own  laws  to  let  one  man  pass  by. 

And  yet  this  hysterical  disease  of  the  mind,  this 
disordered  condition  of  the  internal  arrangements  of 
the  body,  this  love  which  is  the  song  of  the  poets  and 
the  ridicule  of  men,  this  can  do,  in  generous,  altru- 
istic renunciation,  what  the  most  solemn  vow  at  the 
High  Altar  of  God  Himself  will  fail  and  has  failed 
to  bring  to  pass. 

It  is  the  only  loophole,  the  only  escape.  The  love 
of  one  woman  makes  a  man,  but  the  love  of  none — a 
sensualist. 

And  it  was  this  love,  purer  than  all  his  desires  and 


THE  INEVITABLE  841 

stronger  than  all  his  desires,  that  had  suddenly  found 
its  way  into  the  heart  and  reason  of  Father  Michael. 

As  he  looked  down  into  her  face,  he  took  her 
hand,  leading  her  to  the  wooden  form  on  which 
Father  Connelly  was  wont  to  sit  when  he  was  waiting 
to  go  into  the  chapel. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  be  said,  Roona,"  he  began, 
when  she  was  seated. 

"What  are  we  to  do.-*  What  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked  pitifully. 

"  We're  going  on  with  life,"  he  said  quietly,  "  where 
we  left  off,  before  you  told  me." 

"You  don't  love  me  really,  then.?"  she  asked, 
catching  her  breath. 

He  sat  down  on  the  form  by  her  side. 

"  Love  you  ?  "  he  repeated  quietly ;  "  I  don't  think 
you  could  be  loved  so  well.  I  love  you  so  much,  so 
much  as  it  is  right  that  I  should  love,  that  I  could 
not  bring  you  into  a  life  where  there  could  be  nothing 
but  shame.  Roona,  I  don't  count  myself  since  I  have 
learnt  all  this,  and  you  must  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  were  you  not  bound,  I  should  have  broken  all 
ties  willingly  if  it  had  been  your  wish.  I  would  have 
done  all  that  you  could  have  asked  me.  But  you 
aren't  in  a  position  to  ask.  You  are  bound  by  a  tie 
that  has  been  ordained  by  God " 

"And  you.?"  she  asked,  interrupting  him.  "You 
said  that  you  would  break  all  ties  for  my  sake.  Can't 
I  break  them  for  yours  ?  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Don't  you  see  the  difference?"  he  asked.  "The 
sacrament  of  matrimony  was  ordained  by  God;  the 


842  THE   APPLE    OF   EDEN 

vow  of  celibacy  was  ordained  by  man.  I  fear  God — 
nothing  could  ever  change  that  in  me — but  I  am  not 
afraid  of  man.  I  fear  God  for  your  sake  as  well  as 
my  own.  We  are  not  going  to  be  sinners  for  the 
sake  of  our  love.  Oh,  can't  you  see  the  difference.? 
I'm  not  preaching  under  set  rules,  I  am  only  trying 
to  be  the  best  of  what  God  made  me,  and,  not 
because  I  love  myself,  but  because  I  love  you.  It's 
not  a  case  of  honour,  it's  not  a  case  of  selfishness.  I 
know,  I  beheve  I  know,  that  you  would  be  happy 
with  me,  notwithstanding  any  shame  or  any  poverty. 
But,  ever  since  I  was  fifteen,  I've  been  looking  into 
the  after-life,  and  I  know  there  is  an  after-life  to 
come.  I  could  not  see  you  miserable  in  that,  because 
it  is  a  tangible  possibility  to  me,  just  as  your  happi- 
ness may  seem  to  you  in  this  world.  But  when  I 
come  to  weigh  the  two,  as  weigh  them  I  must,  there 
is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  which  weighs  the  heavier. 
I  may  not  be  a  celibate,  but,  before  God!  I  am  a 
priest ! " 

She  rose  slowly  from  the  form  by  his  side,  standing 
there  silent  and  indeterminate  as  though  she  were 
asleep.  He  looked  up  into  her  face,  amazed  to  see 
the  drawn,  hard  lines  about  her  mouth. 

*'Do  you  think  me  a  hypocrite,  Roona.?"  he  asked 
quietly.  "  Do  you  think  my  love  is  not  all  so  true 
and  sincere  as  I  say  it  is  ?  Why,  I  tell  you  there  is  a 
moment  in  the  life  of  nearly  every  priest  when  he  must 
decide  between  being  a  hypocrite  to  himself  and  true 
to  the  Church,  or  a  hypocrite  for  the  Church's  sake 
and  true  to  himself." 

With  a  muffled  cry  she  turned  and  threw  herself 


THE   INEVITABLE  343 

against  him  so  that  he  was  forced  to  catch  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Oh,  I  believe  you,"  she  sobbed;  "I  should  believe 
you  whatever  you  said.  You're  a  man.  You're 
stronger,  better,  nobler  than  I  am.  You  seem  like 
God  to  me." 

"Ssh!"he  said  softly. 

"  It's  true,"  she  went  on,  *'  you  do.  You  do !  I 
don't  know  how  I  can  part  with  you.  I  don't,  really 
I  don't.  All  that  you  said  about  my  being  married, 
it's  right,  quite  right.  But  I  want  you.  I  want  to 
feel  you  kissing  me  as  you  did  that  day  in  the  train 
— as  strong  and  as  wild  as  that.  Oh,  I  want  it,  just 
because  you're  everything  to  me  and  I  shall  never 
know  it  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Ah,  don't,  don't!"  he  pleaded. 

"  But  I  must ! "  she  said  fiercely — "  I've  been  fight- 
ing against  it  all  this  year,  ever  since  Duresne." 

He  looked  above  her  head,  and  there  was  agony  in 
his  eyes  because  he  knew  that  the  fault  had  all  been 
his. 

"Ever  since  you  kissed  me,"  she  repeated.  "Oh, 
how  I  loved  you  when  you  did." 

With  a  swift  and  sudden  action  she  wound  her 
fingers  convulsively  round  his  neck,  dragging  his 
head  with  passionate  force  close  to  hers.  He  tried  as 
well  as  he  could  in  that  moment  to  resist,  but  the 
effort  was  weak,  and  then,  as  once  he  had  kissed  her, 
she  covered  his  face  with  kisses.  Kisses  that  left  the 
sting  upon  his  lips  for  all  his  life. 

In  a  moment  of  breathlessness  she  released  him  and 
then  he  stood  away. 


THE   APPLE   OF   EDEN 

"  Roona,"  he  said  with  a  strained  voice.  "  Go  now 
— go  now." 

She  came  up  to  his  side  and  looked  into  his  face. 
Her  own  was  calm  now.  Like  a  caged  animal,  whose 
prison  only  revolves  the  faster  to  its  useless  rage,  her 
passion  had  been  spent  and  she  was  quiet. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said  softly.  **  I'm  going  now.  I 
think  I  understand  it  all,  and  I  know  what  is  best  for 
me,  I  think  I  know.  I  shall  always  love  you,  honour 
you,  and  think  of  you  as  long  as  I  live."  Her  sen- 
tences were  strange  and  disjointed.  "  As  long  as  I 
live,"  she  repeated,  and  then  she  moved  to  the  door. 

Mechanically  he  opened  it  for  her,  and  mechanically, 
as  though  all  her  movements  were  forced  and  unnat- 
ural, she  passed  through  into  the  chapel. 

He  did  not  look  after  her,  but  stood  there  with  his 
hand  upon  the  handle  of  the  door,  Hstening — listen- 
ing— listening  to  all  the  little  sounds  of  her 
departure. 

Every  footstep  grew  fainter  and,  fainter  as  she 
passed  down  the  aisle.  Not  once  did  she  falter,  not 
once  did  she  hesitate.  He  heard  her  stop  as  she 
reached  the  end  of  the  chapel ;  he  heard  the  clanking 
sound  of  the  Hf  ted  latch. 

His  head  craned  fi  httle  more  on  one  side,  and  then 
the  big  door  slammed. 

Everything  was  silent. 


THE     END 


U/lij^L^ 


liF  ,  ■:,MAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  130  523     4 


